


your headlights look like diamonds.

by ikijai



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Zombies, Definitely AU, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Modern Setting, Older Daryl, Panic, Past Abuse, Slow Build, Tension, UST, Younger Paul, illegal drug use, implied illness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-28
Updated: 2017-10-04
Packaged: 2018-11-20 16:51:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 22,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11339487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ikijai/pseuds/ikijai
Summary: "Drive," the young man pleads. "Justdrive, please."And Daryl doesn't know what to do under the pressure, so he starts up the ignition and takes off onto the tarmac, leaving everything else in the dust as the tires whine underneath them.





	1. Chapter 1

Perspiration drips through Daryl’s unkempt tresses and down onto the steering wheel, wettening his vest, t-shirt and overheated back in the process. The Portsmouth humidity is intense and unforgiving this time of year—and those damn dogwoods won’t stop twining themselves into the windshield wipers of his old BMW E24 no matter how many times he tries to wipe them off.

It’s ironic, Daryl thinks, that a place as underwhelming as goddamn _Virginia_ is this overwhelmingly hot—and it’s still just spring. _Heatwave_ , perhaps. Or the sadist up above who has it out to personally shit on his day until he melts like ice cream destined to puddle. The dark leather seats don’t help, either. Or the windows that won’t roll all the way down. The air conditioning system that stopped working years ago.

It’s one of those days where he’d rather kick the piece of junk than take it anywhere else. It only works intermittently, and he doesn’t have time to re-work the wires or pray that the ignition will come back from the dead today. Doesn’t have the patience to be disappointed if it won’t.

He’s been stuck in worse places than abandoned parking lots, though. And at least he’s still got two packs of cigarettes and a trunk full of old cd’s and tobacco to hold him over. Plus, there's wide, undisturbed space in every direction.

While he leans precariously against the teal trunk, he inhales and exhales intoxicating fumes until his throat isn’t so tight and he doesn’t feel much else. Today, inevitability doesn’t prevail.

He wants nothing more than an ice-cold drink, _anything_ , to cool his insides to the point where he doesn’t feel like he’ll physically go insane. He doesn't know how he ever put up with temperatures warmer than this. But at least it isn't thunderstorms or tornadoes—it could be worse. _Karma Police_  throbs softly through the outdated speakers that protrude from the E24’s dashboard, and Daryl can practically feel his pulse slowing with the weathered tune.

_Karma police, I’ve given all I can, it’s not enough,  
I’ve given all I can, but we’re still on the payroll,_

It’s an okay day, tranquil and underwhelming, just the way he prefers it. It’s okay, that is, until he feels the cool imprint of an IWI Jericho— _his Jericho_ , being pushed deep into his back until there’s a slight twinge of pain at the pressure of it.

This _would_ happen to him of all people. He’s practically a magnet for these types of things. He usually knows better than to let his guard down, but it's too hot to think and this parking lot was theoretically isolated until this instant. Now, his waist is pressed into the trunk of the car with palms welting against warm metal. It all seems to intensify from there.

“I want you to put out the cigarette, put your hands on top of your head. You’ll get back in the car, then turn it on,” the voice utters, insecurity laced throughout the uncertain tone.

The words sound as if they’re being read off a teleprompter. A fucking _premature hijacker_ , Daryl thinks. And they don’t sound too old, either. He kicks himself internally for having been distracted enough to leave things on his dashboard with the doors unlocked. Kicks himself for letting this trainwreck occur in the first place.

“ _I don’t have all day_ ,” the voice whisper-yells impatiently when Daryl doesn’t instantly comply with the demands.

And there’s something else to it that he can’t quite pinpoint—worry, _terror_. The prick is decidedly young and terrified and inevitably perplexed.

“ _Okay_ ,” Daryl utters through teeth, working against every instinct inside that tells him not to do what this person wants. “Just take the damn gun out my back an’ I’ll do it.”

If he wasn’t pissed before, he undoubtedly is now.

The sun seems to beat down with twice as much vigor as Daryl pushes the bud of the unfinished cigarette into the tire closest to him. The gun lowers, as promised, then Daryl’s turning to face the perpetrator.

Tilted eyes narrow as he takes in the pitiful sight directly before him. He’s just a damn _kid_ —with too-wide, octarine eyes and light, pin straight hair passing thin shoulders—an incredible oxymoron to his own toned build. The hand with a tight hold of his gun trembles fiercely. The other hand possesses a death grip on some type of backpack that isn't more than half a yard in length. The kid is pale against the tarnished pavement and terribly miss-dressed for the weather. One thing is obvious over everything else, though: he doesn't want to do this.

Daryl doesn't know how the kid was able to get the jump on him, but he walks away from the passenger side to open the other door either way. The immature hijacker jumps into the passenger side and slams the door, nearly dropping the items in his hold. Daryl toys with the keys as he ponders what to do, but it's difficult when there's an unsteady hand trying desperately to point his own weapon at him. Something tells him the kid wouldn't pull the trigger, though—at least not purposely.

“What're you waiting for?” the young man demands, and his voice is trembling harder than his thin fingers.

He keeps looking back and all over the place, as if he's waiting for another person to jump out and come after him. Hell, maybe that _is_ what's happening. Daryl’s car is the only one within what has to be at least a couple miles distance and there aren't many places for someone to escape to without some type of transportation. He’d quite literally decided to park in the middle of nowhere, where he’d theoretically be undisturbed. This isn’t the first time he’s been tragically wrong about something. This whole thing is obviously an act of desperation, and the kid’s probably in some type of danger if his tense form is at all telling.

Then, impossibly, there _is_ another person. Far enough to appear somewhat pixilated but close enough to reach them within a couple minutes. _What the hell did this kid do?_

Daryl doesn't say a word, but there's a panic building up in his lungs worse than any intoxication he's ever inhaled. The kid looks twice as thrown, perspiration dripping down color-drained cheeks and into the deep blonde hair around his plump lips. His insanely wide eyes don't stop darting around, and it only makes Daryl’s panic worse.

“ _Drive_ ,” the young man pleads, and he sounds so desperately terrified that Daryl thinks he’ll do it. On top of this, he doesn’t have a particular inkling or any kind of interest in finding out who’s trying to get to them. “Just _drive_ , please.”

And Daryl doesn’t know what to do under the pressure, so he starts up the ignition—which fucking _works_ this time—and takes off onto the tarmac, leaving the old parking lot and disappearing figure in the dust as the wheels whine underneath them. So much for a peaceful day, he thinks. Insomnia will probably keep him up for days after this.

  
                                ##

  
“Who was that back there?” Daryl demands after 20 minutes of tension and trembling fingers without a destination. He has to yell over the sound of wind whipping itself into the car.

The sky up above is pastel blue with tangerine undertones peaking out. It'll be dark pretty soon.

“It doesn't matter,” the younger man utters idly, the wrong finger hovering nervously over the trigger they both know he won't pull. The pack he’d been holding is stuck tight between wobbly knees, as if it holds the most important thing in the world.

Daryl peers at himself in the tiny mirror between them for a moment, the hair that just touches taunt shoulders wilder and more unkempt than usual, icy smolder piercing nothing in particular.

They're in a populated area now, weaving in and out of traffic as the younger man plays the silent treatment while somehow still trying to threaten him. They pass plazas and worn out people who don't so much as do a double take at Daryl doing at least ten above the speed limit with a panicked weapon wielder in the passenger seat.

Daryl’s shoulders tense up at the kid’s unsure tone. “The _hell_ it don't. I’m not tryin’ to be part of whatever this damn thing is.”

The younger man says nothing, and Daryl let's out a deep sigh before talking again. The phone in his pocket feels like it weighs a thousand pounds. “You in some kind of trouble? What’d you do? An’ don't tell me it don’t matter. You had the pair to do all this—have the pair to talk, too.”

“I'm just,” the younger man sighs, pulling tightly at his wind blown tresses with enough pressure to make Daryl twitch from where he watches peripherally. “Yeah, okay. I did something.”

 _No shit_ , Daryl thinks. But he’ll let the kid take his time so long as he doesn't pose any actual threat. The damn gun isn't even loaded, but he won't tell the kid until after he dumps him.

“Where are we?” the young man asks, as if it's just occurred to him that he might be in the wrong place.

Every part of Daryl’s patience is being tested all at once as the younger man continues to talk at the wrong moments and remain quiet in the ones words should inhabit.

“You yankin’ me, kid?”

“I’m _not_ a _kid_ ,” the young man pronounces, and it's the first time Daryl’s seen an untainted emotion flicker through those ocean-like eyes. He’s _insulted_. “I just turned 28 yesterday, if you really want to know. And no, I'm not _yanking_ you.”

Daryl huffs to himself, wishing he still had that smoke between his own parted lips as his fingers wrap tighter around the wheel. “Probably just outside Portsmouth by now, if ya wanted to _know_.”

“What’s your name?” the young man asks out of nowhere, like he’s just realized he didn't jot down the title of his kidnapee in all the terrified excitement over the past 20 minutes.

“Why don't you tell me yours first,” Daryl utters, not bothering to turn or take his eyes off the pavement this time.

“You've got trust issues,” the young man observes, but Daryl ignores the personal jab. He's heard those exact words thousands of times, and he isn't about to let it get to him now.

The inside of the car is tight and dusty with two people ducked into it.

After what feels like an eternity, it comes out, low and despondent: “Paul. Paul Rovia. There's not a whole lot of people who call me that, though. Yours?”

The inquiry is so innocent that Daryl can't help but to wonder what a kid like this is doing in a situation this fucked up. Something twists tightly in his intestines. He hasn't willingly given out his name in over a year—but he figures he'll tell the truth this time around. “Daryl.”

“Just Daryl?”

“ _Dixon_ ,” he iterates. “ The _fuck_ is your problem?”

“It’s—”

Daryl interrupts before Paul can keep going. “ _Difficult to explain_. Yeah, I know. You said so about a trillion damn times. But you got _my_ Jericho in your hands an’ I know damn well you don't know what to do with it.”

“Introductions aren't typically your thing, huh?” Paul teases.

There's a timid smile playing at his otherwise tight expression. He’s put the gun down by now, but is still holding it tightly against one wobbly knee. He's obviously not willing to tell the whole truth about his _predicament_.

Daryl doesn't understand how Paul’s gone from saying practically nothing to spilling out a dictionary of words, all while maintaining the tense posture he’d tried to hold him up with just a while ago. The things he says and inquires about have got nothing to do with why this is happening, though. This guy’s good with tricks, Daryl thinks. Good with dodging unpleasant topics.

“Why don't you just put it down,” Daryl tries, trying to keep his tone as impartial as possible. “I’m doin’ what you want.”

“How do I know you won't just throw me out or try to use it on _me_ instead?”

“ _You don't_ ,” Daryl utters through teeth. “But that ain't my damn problem.”

“Probably best not to try anything, then,” Paul says deftly.

Daryl only snorts in response. This guy’s obviously never touched a weapon his whole life.

Paul’s eyebrows knit together, insanely wide eyes narrowing in inquiry. “How old are you?”

“ _What_?”

“Well I told you how old I am, so what about you?” Paul asks as if it's obvious, as if it's just what people do and as if he isn't way out of his jurisdiction.

In a real operation, this kid would already be in handcuffs and off to the local jail. But this isn't a real operation and Daryl isn't like those other people.

“If I tell you, will you quit with the 'twenty questions _'_?”

The younger man nods instantly, and Daryl takes a deep breath before revealing another truth. _Paul_ is pulling at parts of him he didn't know were still there. For a second, he forgets the kid probably did something terrible. “42.”

“You don't sound like you're from around here.” Paul jumps around topics like he doesn't care if he jeopardizes himself in the process. “Maybe Tennessee, or—”

“ _Nah_ ,” Daryl interrupts before rolling tired eyes upward. “Thought you said you’d stop talkin’?”

“Whoops.”

This guy is as weird as he is intriguing, and Daryl wishes he understood the paradox of irritation and interest twisting up inside him every time the younger man talks.

“I gotta stop drivin’ some time, y’know. Tank’s almost on E.”

Paul says nothing, as promised, and it only peeks Daryl’s irritation that much more. He pulls a thumb between his teeth while he thinks of what to say next. He can see the younger man watching him through his peripheral vision, finger nowhere near the trigger.

“Where d’you wanna be dropped off?” Daryl asks, peering over at the prick who decided to ruin his day.

The sun is only partially visible now, and the temperature is finally dropping.

“I-I don't know,” Paul utters, picking idly at his jacket and looking anywhere but into Daryl’s intimidating smolder. “I didn't think that part through.”

“You didn't,” Daryl deadpans, poker face intact.

“I don't usually do this type of thing,” Paul jokes, and somehow he manages to sound upset with the situation he's gotten _himself_ into.

Daryl’s palms itch as he takes in another deep breath. “There's a motel a ways up,” he utters. “I'll take you there after a pit stop.”

Paul nods almost imperceptibly, opting to peer out the window for this part of their unplanned trip. The bag in his lap never leaves that tight grip, but the Jericho eventually makes its way onto the dashboard. Maybe the guy’s tired of playing around. Maybe he's just a psychopath who wanted to fuck around for a little while.

Either way, the drive is silent to the point where they could pick up on the sound of a pin dropping from outside. It's almost tranquil, peaceful even.

  
                                ##

  
The sky is warmed peach by the time they pull into the tiny gas station, passing a tall, jade sign: ‘ _Welcome to Our Town_ ’. The place is surrounded by woods on three sides like a peninsula, and Daryl can tell it bothers Paul not to be able to see what's out there. He used to be that way, too.

He fills the tank up nearly half-way before swiping a barely-used debit card to pay. He turns back to see Paul’s cheek pressed up against the window, peering into the woods that’re just yards away and distorted under the increasing lack of light.

Trees twist and turn in the wind that still hasn't died down, but it’s immensely more pleasant than the heat from the afternoon—even as it blows Daryl's dark tresses into distracting waves around his face.

He knocks on the window while pointing toward the gas station shop, and Paul twitches as if he's just come out of deep thought. “You thirsty or somethin’?”

“Kind of.”

“What’re you waitin’ for then? They got drinks and sandwiches inside.”

“I don't know if it's a good idea to—,” Paul begins, irises darting around again before Daryl interrupts.

He’s drenched and tired and needs a break from driving the wired-up psycho around town.

“ _I don't got all day_.” Daryl imitates Paul’s words from earlier, but the younger man still doesn't budge from the passenger seat.

“Gimme a damn break, man,” he whisper-yells. “It's just you an’ me. If I didn't try anything by now I won't. ‘Sides, you look like you could use somethin’ to eat.”

“You making fun of me because I'm thin?” Paul teases, white teeth on full display in a way that makes Daryl’s pulse take pause under dim gas station lights that only kind of work.

He wishes the younger man would wipe that damn grin off his face. Still, Daryl holds back a planned retort for the sake of politeness. People around this town have impacted his way of doing things, after all. There's no other way to put it.

Paul is too-obviously a lot of things: impulsive, kind of obnoxious and way too jumpy. But there might just be more to him than what shows on the outside.

“Nah. Just get outta the damn car, will you?”

“Sure thing, _Daryl_ ,” Paul enunciates, stifling a yawn. And the backpack comes with him as he ducks out of the car.

Part of Daryl wishes he were anywhere but here, but unfortunately, he _is_ here and now he's got a passenger. On top of this, he’s only been out this way a couple times, and he can only _imagine_ they're still within state lines. This has got to be some kind of practical joke.

_What time is it?_

  
                                ##

  
Paul devours the burger and sprite like he's been in the desert the past couple years. Daryl wouldn't be surprised if that were true at this point. He's nearly positive the younger man isn't even tasting it.

Daryl watches him intently, downing his own sandwich before crumpling up the tinfoil it was in and draining the rest of his pepsi. They're sitting toward the back of the dimly lit store, tucked into a dirty metal table near a bright yellow _wet floor_ sign—old, obviously. The floor isn't wet and they’re the only two people in the shitty place.

Just a couple minutes ago, the teen behind the counter name-tagged  _Jonny_  eyed them warily and peeked down at his watch with a worried expression before Daryl took out his wallet and ordered for the two of them under irritated breathes. “Sign said open,” he uttered, and Jonny went to prepare their order without another word.

“I'll pay you back,” Paul says between burger bites, spacious, idiot eyes twinkling with some inward amusement. He doesn't even bother to wipe his mouth until he's inhaled the entire thing. “Promise.”

“Don't worry ‘bout it,” Daryl replies after a pause. “Was just a couple bucks.”

“Yeah, well,” Paul utters before licking his teeth. “I still want to pay you back. I kind of owe you, anyway. You know,” he pauses, picking at the zipper on his precious backpack. “For the whole kidnapping ordeal.”

“Yeah. Whatever, kid,” Daryl utters.

He can tell Paul wants to remind him that he's _28_ and not to call him that, but something stops the younger man in his tracks before he's gulping down the rest of the gas station quality sprite and tapping his sneaker-clad foot against the dirty table leg incessantly.

Daryl’s still pissed about what happened, yet he can't help but to feel some weird type of disturbance at how naive and willfully ignorant this guy is. He _must_ have a death wish, or at least some strange obsession with having people want to kill him.

“What were you doing out in that parking lot earlier?” Paul whispers after wiping unwashed hands on his jeans.

The teen who was behind the counter wipes down tables and pretends not to eavesdrop.

Daryl doesn't say a word, doesn't even bother to take his thumb from between his teeth.

“You don't talk much,” Paul says after pausing. “Or _maybe_ you're in trouble too. That's pretty interesting.”

Daryl narrows his eyes in response, but otherwise doesn't fall into the trap. Paul’s own eyes brighten as he turns to peer out the window for what has to be the thousandth time, pupils widening under the painfully bright lighting in the dingy pit stop store.

Either this guy isn't intimidated by Daryl, or he's pretending not to be for the sake of his terrible plan. He thinks about walking out, jumping in his car and leaving the younger man to deal with this shit on his own. But something keeps him planted in the metal seat—something keeps him from driving off.

“You don't sound like you’re from around here, either,” Daryl utters after a while.

Paul doesn't look away from the window, but he doesn't waste time explaining either. “You got me there,” he laughs softly, dimples uneven. “I was actually born upstate. But I grew up in New York.”

“Why’d you come back?” Daryl ponders out loud, pushing his own limit on talking to others. It's a wonder anybody would willingly come back to a place as dry and tepid as this.

Paul goes dead silent at what Daryl thought was an innocent question, the smile dissipating instantly. He decides to drop it, though. Even someone as talkative as Paul has their private things that just can't be told out loud. Daryl understands this better than anybody.

  
                                ##

  
The sun is dangerously close to touching the horizon by now and they're still a little ways from the motel. It's nearly 8:00 o'clock by the time he checks the white, glowing letters in the dashboard, and this definitely isn't how he planned the day when he woke up this morning.

“You mind if I use your phone?”

Daryl doesn't know how Paul even knew he had the thing, but he pulls it out of his pocket and hesitantly holds it out with the hand not tightly grasping the wheel. There’s something between the urge to puke and an unsettling distantness prowling inside him. But it's okay—there's nothing private inside the phone he’d picked up just a few weeks back.

“You don't got a phone?” Daryl asks, and he knows the question is dumb before it's even left his throat.

Paul shakes his head no, eyebrows knit tightly together above unsettlingly wide pupils. Daryl let's go of the tight grip he’d had on the thing with a deep sigh.

“Just make it quick. Only got a little bit of juice left in it.”

“Thank you,” Paul says, and then he’s dialing away and waiting for whoever it is to pick up. He taps the window as he waits and it drives Daryl nearly insane until whoever it is Paul’s trying to call picks up the damn thing.

When the other line comes through, Daryl picks up muffled yelling and then what sounds like a worried tone.

“I'm okay, Tara,” Paul whispers, trying and failing to be discreet about his ‘private phonecall’. “It’ll just be a little while, alright? I just need to throw him off my tail.”

There's more muffled talking and Daryl thinks he hears another woman’s voice in the background. “I gotta go, Tara, This isn't my phone I'm using—yeah. You know I know what I'm doing.”

Daryl hears something like _Jesus_ through the phone and the only thing he can think is _touché_. He’s obviously not the only person Paul’s driven insane. A little while later, Paul ends the phone call and gives it back to Daryl, who tucks it into his pocket on the side furthest from the younger man. Thankfully, he kept the glove compartment locked today.

Daryl peers at Paul intently, and the younger man seems to instantly know why.

“It was a friend of mine. I just wanted her to know I was okay in case—,” he pauses, outwardly thinking and picking different words. “I just wanted her to know things were okay.”

Daryl makes a sound of acknowledgement deep in his throat before turning back to the road. He can feel Paul peering down at his tattoos, can feel the inquiry he knows won't turn into words. Tiny pieces of this unique young man’s personality show themselves with each passing instant.

“An’ that's the truth?”

Paul nods slowly, up and down. But he doesn't look too sure of his unspoken truth as he grips the straps of his backpack tighter. He's wearing it now, but he still isn't willing to put it down.

“You got any music to put on in here?” the younger man ponders, looking truly unimpressed with the lack of noise.

“Uh-uh,” Daryl utters in his throat.

“Well, what's on those tapes?” Paul peers down at said objects, all lined up between them in unlabeled order—and it takes everything inside Daryl not to threaten the kid within an inch of his life if he _thinks_ about touching them.

“None of your damn business,” he says instead, and Paul seems to understand that it's time to stop talking for a while.

The younger man goes back to popping his tongue and tapping the window. _Piece of shit_ , Daryl thinks. The thought burns white-hot as he presses down on the pedal with just a little more pressure.

The tune from the song he’d played earlier plays in and out of his distracted mind.

_Phew, for a minute there.._

The light outside keeps dying and Daryl’s pulse keeps invigorating. More than anything in the world, he’s itching for a smoke to ease whatever it is that's pulsing through his tight veins. But the pack is tucked into the glove compartment on Paul’s side, and though he could probably pull it out without the younger man noticing a thing, it isn't worth it.

  
                                ##

  
_'Days Inn'_ blinks on and off in bright, neon lights by the time they pull into the parking lot. A tiny sign spells out ‘ _Open_ ’ in the window. It's dead silent and pitch black outside. Paul looks exhausted in the passenger seat.

And whereas it was overwhelmingly hot most of the day, the dark brings icy temperatures and an unsettling quiet. The peal of insects chirping keenly penetrating their ears and the disturbed buzzing of the neon sign are the only sounds within what has to be miles.

“I guess this is it, then,” Paul whispers. Then he’s unbuckling himself and ducking out of the car, bag in hand and jacket wrinkled around thin shoulders. He’s still planted there in the parking lot, though.

“I hope you know I didn't want to cause you any trouble,” he utters, ducking his head back down to peer intently at Daryl.

Daryl blinks up at him, but doesn't say a word.

Paul’s voice is watery and pitiful, like he'll break down at any wrong movement. “Thank you, Daryl. I know you'd probably rather have spent the day doing just about anything else, but I want you to know that this meant the world to me. I'd probably be dead without you.”

And Daryl can't just let it go. “You gon' tell me what you did?” His voice sounds desperate to his own ears, like he _needs_ to know before he can drive off and go back to his ordinary life as a part-time worker. Like he needs to know that this kid isn't going to get himself killed by tomorrow.

The last thing he needs is some dead guy’s probably-innocent blood spilled under his witness.

“I wish it were that simple,” Paul says, then he's jogging toward the motel doors and disappearing in the pitch black before Daryl can utter a thing. Daryl’s positive that a pin could drop and he’d pick up on it.

He takes the gun off the dashboard and tucks it into the glove compartment with his other private items. He’s decided to keep it under lock and key from now on—just in case another person comes along and tries to jump him with an unloaded weapon and an insecure plan. By the time he peers back up, Paul is inside and out of sight.

All it does is make him uneasy, disturbed and paranoid in ways he can't define. He doesn't know if this kid is trustworthy, especially not after the way they were _introduced_. But he _does_ know that he doesn't trust himself to drive away yet.

There's something _wrong_ here, and he can't just take off like nothing happened no matter how intensely his instincts tell him to get as far away from this place as possible. The tank is nearly empty and there's nowhere else to go, nothing else to do tonight.

Since Paul and the ever-important backpack are out of his passenger seat, he's finally able to lean over and take out the pack of cigarettes from that afternoon. He doesn't light one up, though. Just tucks the pack into his pocket before turning the key to lock the glove compartment back up.

Once he's entirely certain there's no one else outside, he pushes in _tape 4_ and hits play, tightly shutting his eyes before they can water up. Daryl takes solace in knowing the doors aren't unlocked and the windows are rolled up.

Tired knuckles rub over tight eyelids as he puts his feet up on the dashboard and tilts his head back. Without so much as a second thought, Daryl promptly passes out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for giving this the time of day !!


	2. Chapter 2

Paul wakes up to an incessant pounding in his temple and discomfort deep in his gut. Though he’d pretty much expected to wake up in a jail cell—or bleeding out to death on dry pavement back in Portsmouth. Instead, he finds himself planted on top of a dirty mattress within a tiny space that has the distinct odor of _puke_. While he knows 20 dollars probably could’ve produced better than this, he also knows that he didn’t drive himself to this place and that he isn’t about to object to not being dead.

There’s no flowery scent or mint on top of his pillow, just a disturbed quiet and dew-damp window pane in the wall directly across from the double-bolted door. It's incredibly more pleasant than the way today could’ve turned out, Paul thinks. It could be much worse than this. Still, the tension filling his lungs up to the top is physically palpable.

 _Dwight_ could know where he is, could be waiting for him to step outside to get the job done. Kal or Eduardo could be down the street just watching to see if he makes the wrong move so they can punish him for it. It feels like that's what the whole universe is doing.

Pushing that thought out is the only thing that gets him to open his eyes all the way. The space is dizzy and distorted through tired eyelids, and the only thing he can clearly make out is the distant, iridescent glow of numbers underneath the decade old tv until his pupils widen to adjust to the darkness. _2:18 AM_ blinks on and off until it turns to phosphenes behind his retinas. It takes him a minute just to recall where he is and why.

“ _Shit_ ,” he utters, joints aching from what feels like days of being on the move. His throat is parched.

Paul can't pretend the image of the ineffable, puzzle of a person who’d practically saved his pitiful ass isn't still lingering in the important parts of his mind. Trying to gauge the older man the previous day was a paradox in itself, and as much as he tries to shake that intimidating gaze and those tense shoulders out, his wired-up head won't let him.

He wipes dried drool from the side of his mouth before dragging his fingers through damp, pillow-staticy hair. Pinching the bridge of his nose tightly between his thumb and index finger, he throws off the white-ish sheets and feels underneath the bed to make sure his pack is still there. With an inward sigh, he jumps down, following the octagonal pattern until it leads into the painfully tight bathroom.

Every one of the walls is painted an ugly, mint green that turns oddly pastel under the blinding light. He didn’t bother to check the toilet yesterday and he won’t today, either. He has zero interest in witnessing just how disgusting this place actually is.

Peering at his image in the mirror tells him that his hair looks worse than he thought, tangled and parted in the wrong place. His face is still discolored—pupils too wide to pass as ordinary.

He pulls a wristband from his jacket pocket and ties his tresses up into a ponytail. Then he’s splashing warm tap water over his face in a useless effort to wash the tiredness out.

The icy chill in the air is eerily similar to Daryl Dixon’s intense, blue-grey eyes—digging into him even in their absence. The older man had probably driven off moments after he ducked out of the car, Paul thinks. He’s probably gone for good, permanently and irreversibly. Definitely the intelligent thing to do. If he could get away from himself, just physically project from his own body, he would too.

The desire for toothpaste just to wash away the terrible taste lingering at the base of his tongue is overwhelming. Something about this place makes him feel like he's trapped in the twilight zone.

It’s way too early and Paul wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep if he wanted to, so he turns the tv on in hopes that there’ll be something good to watch. To his disappointment, there are only a handful of different channels to pick from, two of which are 24-hour porn stations. He turns the thing off with a deep sigh and walks to the window, holding his breath as he pulls back the dirty drapes.

When he makes out the imprint of a car outside just yards away, his insides feel as though they’ll still permanently. His heart nearly jumps into his throat until he realizes it's _Daryl’s_ car—parked in the exact same spot, teal color obvious even under moonlight. It’s difficult to tell, but Paul’s pretty sure the driver’s seat is still occupied.

“Jesus christ,” he whispers into the dark as he pears outside, wide eyes sweeping to the left and right of the parking lot at pure nothingness.

He has to push back the urge to tap his knuckles against the windowsill, toes curling in discomfort.

Impossibly, the older man didn't take off. Though he had every reason to and then some, he didn’t drive back to Portsmouth and he didn't disappear. Something inside Paul warms at the knowledge. Another part twists in guilt.

 

                                ##

 

The payphone rings only twice before Tara picks up, tone worried and tired and personified distress. She’d been waiting to hear from him for almost a day now.

"Did I wake you up?"

“ _Please_ tell me you're kidding.”

Paul peers around the wooded area before answering. He’d taken the back exit of the motel just to be safe and walked about twenty minutes along the pavement and under power lines before discovering the isolated phonebooth.

“I know, I know,” he whispers, twitching at how pathetic his excuse is. “I should’ve tried to call you sooner.”

“You think? I didn’t know where you were for days— _days_ , Paul,” she enunciates. “You could've been _dead_ for all I knew.”

And he knows it's serious this time, because Tara hasn't used his actual name in weeks. The occurrences are usually few and far between, but he has an inkling that that'll change pretty soon.

He can practically feel Tara pacing through the phone, breaths understandably impatient. He can picture her dark, unnerved eyes watering up with worry. The words to make it right abandon him, so he keeps listening to her talk.

“Don't tell me I'm being dramatic, either. I was terrified.” Tara sighs deeply on the other line, tone intensifying. “Where are you? Are you positive you’re okay?”

She doesn't allow Paul time to answer before she’s further interrogating him. “What happened with Kal, anyway? Wasn't he supposed to pick you up yesterday?”

“The piece of shit ditched me. Didn't know I was so unpopular,” he utters. He feels like a pawn placed in his own terrible game. “And the place I’m staying in doesn’t even have a phone so I had to walk in order to find one. Otherwise, I would’ve called before now.”

“God, Paul. I'm sorry. I didn’t know all that—I didn't even get to give you your present yet,” Tara utters as an afterthought.

“Present?”

“For your birthday?” Paul pictures her eyebrows knitting together. “Which I'm pretty sure is still the 20th. What's got you so distracted?”

 _Daryl_ flashes through his mind in pieces before he can stop the intrusion. Paul knows the twinge of fear he feels at the idea of being left behind by the man is irrational—Daryl doesn't owe him a thing and they don't even know each other. But he can't help the unprecedented emotion. He doesn’t want to be left on his own out here.

“I don't think we’re in town anymore,” Paul utters into the phone.

There's a decent pause before Tara talks again, digging into him with just one word. “We?”

“Well,” Paul tries to choose his words wisely. “You remember when I told you I was using someone else’s phone yesterday?”

“Yup.”

“I-I don’t even know how to put this,” he begins. “Dwight found out where I was—”

“ _What_?”

Paul grasps the phone’s wire tighter, breathing in deeply through nostrils and out through dry lips. He can’t stop his knuckles from tapping the transparent phone booth wall. “Just wait.”

“Okay.”

“So, I was trying to get away from one of Dwight’s people when I found some torn down building with a parking lot behind it. There was _one_ car in it, and one guy with his back to me. I tried to come up with another plan, but I had no other option at that point.”

“Keep talking.”

“I snuck up on him while he was distracted. From what I saw at first, he didn't seem like the type of person who’d just willingly give me a lift, you know?”

Paul can't stop the tumble of words escaping his mouth as he tries to portray exactly what went down without mentioning the gun he’d picked up off the dashboard. The last thing he wants is Tara’s disappointment along with her worry.

“So I kind of pressured this guy into giving me a ride and then he _did_ —all the way to wherever we are now. I think he’s still back at the motel where he dropped me off last night. So um, I’m pretty sure Dwight doesn’t know where I am now.”

Paul pauses, inwardly wincing at how uninformed he sounds. He’s trapped inside the lines he drew. “Fuck, _I_ don’t know where I am.”

He’s nearly sure Tara hung up before her voice comes through again, staticky and somewhat difficult to make out at this point. “Are you insane?”

“Probably.”

“How do you know you can even trust this guy, Paul?” she pushes. “He could be a serial killer—or worse.”

“I think between the two of us, he’s the one with the trust issues, Tar.” And the guilt from what he did keeps tearing up his insides.

“Does he know anything?”

“Nothing except what I told him, which trust me, wasn’t much.”

He can practically hear Tara’s disbelief through the phone, tone dripping with technicality and protectiveness. “What do you know about him, though?”

 _True_ , Paul thinks. He knows positively nothing about Daryl except what's obviously displayed for the world to view.

“I mean, he's kind of prickly and he's kind of got a temper, but I think he's okay.” There's a low beep to let tell him the time is nearly up. “Damn it,” he utters.

“What's up?”

“There’s not much time left on this thing.”

“You need to get another phone,” Tara deadpans. “It's dangerous for you to be out in the open.”

“I know, but it's still dark out.”

“Yeah, but. Still,” Tara protests. “Aren’t there any stores within walking distance?”

“There’s a whole lot of nothing out here, then woods, then more nothing. I’ll probably have to find a map back at the motel.”

“ _Dude_ , what year are you in? Are you time traveling or something—like that Doctor Who shit?”

Paul’s insides warm drastically at Tara’s joking tone even as he rolls tired eyes upward, wishing she was there to see it and punch his shoulder for it. “Really funny, Tara.”

“I'll see you pretty soon?” she asks out of nowhere, voice soft yet tense at the same time.

“Yeah,” Paul says, and he hopes to anything up in the sky that it's the truth. “I just need to get to the drop off point. Then it’s done.”

“Just be careful, okay? Do what you need to do, but watch out for yourself too,” Tara whispers, and something in the words makes Paul's throat tighten.

“I will.”

“And if or when you see Kal again, tell him I'll kick his pathetic ass into next week,” Tara utters, tone not at all joking.

“You know it.”

 

                                ##

 

Walking along too-tall power lines and what has to be damn near an hour bring Paul to a shop just off the edge of the road. Incredibly, the sign in the window blinks ‘ _Open_ ’ in neon lights—something that seems to be a reoccurring pattern around this tri-state.

Paranoia has him watching his back and tracking his own steps the whole way. Every twitch of wildlife or passing insect has his pulse skyrocketing. Paul knows better than to underestimate his opponents.

He only enters the place once he's sure there's no one else outside. Walking through the tight aisles, he picks up anything and everything he thinks might be of use: toothpaste, deodorant, pocket knife, first aid kit. Phone.

He picks out the cheapest one he can find before asking the woman behind the counter to put as many minutes on it as possible—unlimited if she can.

“Do you have any kind of breakfast items here?” Paul asks while placing down the multitude of items he’d picked out.

The woman shakes her head left to right but prepares to speak. “But we got donuts, half regular price if you buy a dozen.”

Paul almost says no until the debt he owes to Daryl tears wordlessly at the back of his throat. Donuts will in no way make up for what went down, but he figures he’ll at least reimburse the other man for the pitstop burger.

“I'll take those too, then.”

He watches as the shop-keeper’s eyes widen when he pulls out a wad of cash from a pocket in his jacket. He drops a couple hundreds down on the counter without hesitating.

“Will this be enough for everything?”

The older woman only nods before instantly taking the bills into her possession. Then she's going somewhere in the back and returning with two wrapped packages.

“Donuts,” she says, pointing to the dozen he’d bought. “Phone.”

“Thank you,” Paul says before making his way toward the door and pushing outside with plastic bags in hand.

He spends the walk back unwrapping the phone from its package and adding important contacts to it. First Tara, then Eduardo. He thinks about adding Kal and his ex-boyfriend, but shakes the thought away with a deep sigh.

Instead, he goes to Tara’s contact and starts typing:   

> **4:17 AM**  
>  Picked up a phone. Walking back to the motel now. J x

Then, following a short wait:    

> **Tara 4:20 AM**  
>  Good.
> 
> **Tara 4:21 AM**  
>  Don’t be an idiot, Jesus.

He feels the tiniest smile form on his lips as he pockets the phone and keeps pushing on. Walking back, he hears the distant sound of a train passing.

 

                                ##

 

The trek back goes without incident, plastic bags dangling at Paul’s sides as he slows to a steady pace. By the time the peachy tint of ‘ _Days Inn_ ’ shows itself over the incline, the sun and the temperature are both increasingly rising.

He avoids the parking lot and instead walks along the treeline to the back exit where he’d previously left. There's nothing back there except a dumpster that's seen better days and a window he plans on climbing through to get back in unnoticed.

Once in the plainly painted _room 14_ , he throws the room key on the dresser and dumps the contents of his plastic bags onto the impromptu tv stand. He's still technically got this room for one more day, but he has a feeling he won't take up the offer.

Paul brushes his teeth in under a minute, breathing through his mouth to avoid the terrible, overtly metallic taste of the tap water pouring from old pipes. He unzips his pack only to stuff his new items inside.

A peek out the window tells him Daryl's car is still parked in the exact same place. The only difference is that this time, the older man is bent under the hood, shoulder blades protruding from a wide, tense back.

Weird, Paul thinks. But he's definitely seen weirder.

It’s the first time he's noticed the pattern stitched into Daryl’s vest. He’d been too worked up yesterday to take notice of the unique angel wings plastered onto the material. It's ironic, he thinks. Yet somehow it fits perfectly.

Paul thinks about taking off into the woods until he reaches another town, but Daryl didn’t abandon him yet and he isn’t about the abandon the older man, either. Not after he practically un-wrote his death certificate. It's like there's two people talking inside his brain: one telling him to run, one telling him to stay.

Paul lets out a yawn as he lets the drapes fall, but he’s already made his decision by the time he makes his way outside.

Walking up, Daryl’s stance is that of an untrusting wild animal even before Paul makes his presence known. The taller man is wearing the same dirty t shirt from yesterday. And while his every move seems to be instinctual, Paul's are almost always improvised.

He reaches a tentative hand out to touch the man’s shoulder and instantly knows it isn’t a wise idea. Daryl jerks in surprise at the contact, looking just about ready to deck him as he turns to Paul with tight knuckles.

“Whoa!” the younger man protests, pulling his hand back immediately. “It's me—Paul?” he tries.

After a moment, Daryl’s fists untighten, his own hands lowering. The older man’s eyes narrow tightly and Paul gulps down the sizable knot in his throat. Even though the sun is just barely showing through the puffy clouds up above, the blue to Daryl’s gaze is obvious and taunting. Paul instead directs his eyes down toward the older man’s wrought lips, which are adjoined by patchy hairs with grey parts showing throughout.

“We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” he jokes, sounding dumb to his own ears but unable to diffuse the tension between them any other way. “Wouldn't want you to get the wrong idea.”

When the older man speaks, his voice is deep and ultimately intimidating. “This some kinda damn joke to you?”

Paul’s voice takes on a tone of innocence. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

He tries not to pay attention to the way his pulse increases every time Daryl’s jaw tightens or blue eyes deepen, but it's pretty much unignorable as the older man’s wild-like gaze inspects what feels like every individual part of him. Seeing through the guy’s poker face is nearly impossible. Though not for trying, Paul thinks. Because he wants to try even though Daryl Dixon is the furthest thing from transparent.

It’s then Paul remembers the greasy white box tucked under his armpit. “I walked down to a shop and picked up some things. Told you I’d pay you back, didn’t I?”

He watches Daryl’s jaw un-tighten, eyes narrowing impossibly thinner before softening in a not-at-all obvious kind of way. The older man disguises insecurity well.

Paul tucks a piece of hair behind his ear. His unnerved hand goes to push through it before he remembers it’s still tied up.

“What’s in the box?” Daryl's voice is tepid—practiced, invoking Paul’s chest to untighten.

“Donuts. I didn’t know what you liked, so I got all different kinds.”

Daryl’s poker face remains intact, but Paul doesn't feel the urge to puke anymore while looking directly at the taller man. And he can't deny it—he's intrigued.

Paul’s palms itch under the pressure of waiting, though he feels an involuntary smile playing at his lips in the same instant. He's almost positive he imagines the older man’s cheeks warming up behind dark tresses.

“I wouldn't ever make a promise I can't keep.”

 

                                ##

 

They end up sitting on the edge of the curb together—with a yard of space and the open box of donuts between them. Daryl likes the powdered jelly ones, Paul observes. He doesn’t so much as touch plain or glazed. It's not Krispy Kreme, but what could Paul expect from a store that’s practically a shack in the middle of nowhere?

Daryl doesn't seem too talkative today. Not that he did yesterday, though. He sits and picks at oozing jelly without a word. A part of Paul wants to ask if he’s okay, if there's something wrong, but he stops himself before the words escape his throat. Nothing about this situation is okay.

“Sorry,” Paul blurts out. Daryl barely turns to look at him with a bottom lip pulled between his teeth. “I-I didn't think to get drinks or anything. It was a long walk.”

Paul isn't surprised when Daryl practically ignores him, paying more attention to the pavement under their feet than to Paul’s words. He knows Daryl can probably detect his bullshit. Can probably tell that he’s jumping around the point.

“I wanted to tell you the truth yesterday, but I wasn’t prepared and I didn’t know how to word it,” Paul begins with a silent thud, trying desperately to keep eye contact with Daryl. He keeps going when Daryl doesn’t respond.

“You deserve to know, especially since you're pretty much involved now. I know that.” Paul still avoids talking about the actual _it_ , trying to wait for the right moment to unveil the truth to the person he’s known for all of twelve hours.

Daryl’s pointed features twist into something Paul can’t define. “The police involved?”

Paul shakes his head to indicate no. “Definitely not.”

Daryl doesn't say a word, but his intense stare has Paul tripping over his own thoughts. 

“There’s some people I got involved with a couple years back, and this time they told me I have to deliver a _package_.” Paul nods his head backwards at the pack strapped to his shoulders, picking his next words carefully. “The thing is, other people want it too. You saw one of them yesterday. But if I don't get there first, this whole thing is worthless.”

The last portion is whispered. “They'll deliver some information in return.”

He’s got an unshakable inkling that Daryl knows exactly what’s in the pack, probably knew it before. But there's something the older man isn't telling him, too.

Daryl seems to ponder the words for a while, eyes turning desolate and dark. He doesn't even ask what kind of _information_ he's talking about like Paul thought he would.

“How d’you know they’ll keep up their end of the deal?”

“They’re not phenomenal people—far from it, to tell you the truth. But they do keep their word.” They keep their death threats too, Paul thinks. But he won't tell Daryl that part. Not yet.

Daryl pulls out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter, taking one individual paper stick between parted lips before sparking it up. The slight breeze pushes the fumes directly toward Paul, who waves the wafting smoke from his face while trying not to be too obvious about it.

“What're you still doing here, by the way?” he tries cautiously, trying not to irritate the ill-tempered man further or start something worse entirely.

For a second, it seems as though Daryl will just ignore the inquiry, but he clears his throat a little while later, picking at his paper stick with a wide thumb and forefinger. “Ain't got no place to be.”

“You could've come inside, you know. There were two beds in there.”

Daryl only shrugs, taking in and wafting out another puff in the process.

Paul knows the weapon he pulled off the dashboard yesterday during his panic of impaired judgment wasn't even loaded—that Daryl didn't have to do the thing he did. That he probably could've overpowered the younger man if he wanted to. But he didn't, and Paul knows that it means something that he can't quite piece together yet.

“You're a better person than I am, for what you did,” Paul utters, eyes downcast.

“I ain't better or worse than nobody, kid.”

Paul doesn’t know what to make of the words, opting to look up at the puffy clouds instead of at Daryl’s profile. It feels like he’s intruding on something private, even though the utterance is vague. It’s distinct. Paul finds himself tapping one of his kneecaps, unable to find another way to placate his overworked mind.

“What’s with that thing you keep doin’?” Daryl asks out of nowhere, pools of inquiry peeking through under uneven tresses.

Peering at the other man, Paul decides then and there to drop the ploy and tell the truth about at least this one detail, even as an uncomfortable thawing permeates his being.

“It's panic disorder.”

It looks like Daryl wants to take back his inquiry—maybe even apologize. Paul interrupts before he can think about it.

“It's okay, though. It went undiagnosed for a while when I was younger. But that was a long time ago, and I’ve got it under control. I have pills for it.” He pauses when he realizes he's talking too much, looking down to the knots in his shoelaces in an uncharacteristically shy way while twining his fingers tightly together.

Daryl’s next words take him aback. “You take 'em?”

“Yeah," Paul says, and it’s partially true. He hasn’t had a prescription refill in weeks. But there’s something weird prowling inside him that doesn’t want to disappoint the older man.

“I know I already told you this, but I apologize for what I did yesterday. Today, too. I didn't want to involve other people, but I didn't know what to do. I really wanted you to know that.” And he'll keep saying it if that's what it takes.

Daryl looks torn, worn out and at a loss for words. Paul recognizes it—it's the kind of tired that needs to keep pushing.

So much has happened inside Paul and it isn’t even 8 o'clock in the morning yet. There’s still dew on the ground and the haphazard itch of early-morning quiet. It’s dry for a place that pours a lot this time of year.

“Why you tellin’ me this?” Daryl whispers, so low that Paul has to strain his ears just to hear the words. "Ya don' know me."

“I want you to know who _I_ am. I want you to know I’m not that thing I did yesterday.”

Paul holds Daryl’s deep stare for what feels like an eternity, but it's only a moment that passes before Daryl goes back to inhaling smoke, his drape of hair not allowing Paul to see whatever’s playing on his face. The older man doesn't seem like the type of person who trusts other people just like that, but it’s obvious that he doesn't trust himself either.

“Where is it you’re headed to?” Daryl asks, completely ignoring Paul’s provoking words. But Paul can tell it got to him in some way since the older man’s octave deepens at the same time he pulls himself up taller on the pole he’s up against.

“Ohio. Which I know is pretty far, probably at least 12 hours. I had a ride worked out until he ditched me—that was right before I spotted your car, by the way,” he utters. “I'd prefer not to get into that whole thing, though.”

Paul expects Daryl to snort or tell him off, but instead: “You always talk this damn much?”

“Only to people I want to trust.”

Daryl’s impossible eyes shoot up at this, and Paul’s surprised when they widen instead of narrow. The rest of his face is painstakingly undetectable.

“You must want to trust me, too,” Paul whispers. “At least a little bit. You helped me out yesterday. You're still with me today when you could've taken off hours ago.”

Daryl looks like the personification of being tongue tied, and this is when Paul knows he's struck into something important. He holds his breath as he waits for whatever will spill out.

“I'll do it,” Daryl utters through the thick smoke whirling around his face.

Paul feels his eyes widening, lips parting with them. “Do what?”

“Drive you to Ohio,” Daryl huffs as if it's obvious, lips twisting into what can only be described as a wry expression. “Take ya to the drop point.”

“ _What_?” Paul exclaims, truly taken aback by the older man’s words. “I can't ask you to—”

“You ain't askin’, I'm tellin’.”

“What if I really piss you off? Or you get tired of me tagging along?”

“You're pissin’ me off right now, kid,” Daryl utters. This time, his voice isn't so tough.

If Paul didn't know any better, he’d think the tone was joking. But he won't get his hopes up for something he probably just imagined.

“Thanks,” he whispers after a pause.

“Don't thank me yet. We ain't even passed the state line—still got a way to go.”

It's the most Paul’s heard the man utter at one time.

He watches Daryl inhale smoke for a while before he realizes he's staring and picks his own brain for an excuse. It feels like pretending is the only thing he’s ever truly known how to do.

“Won't your family miss you?” he wonder aloud. “Or your job?”

The taller man puts out his cigarette before pocketing the pack, pulling himself up and walking back to his car to finish the job Paul’d interrupted. He ducks under the hood, tattooed biceps tight and damp. Like their other interactions, he doesn't utter a thing for what feels like an ice age.

“Put your junk in the back. Don't want it takin’ up too much space.”

 

                                ##

 

After packing up his things and turning in his room key, Paul finds himself planted in Daryl’s passenger seat yet again. Daryl drives without a word, but he doesn’t look as tense as he did yesterday. It’s what keeps Paul from going insane.

In the past couple days, he’s nearly been discovered twice, lost most of his old things and gone down the wrong path. Ignoring the knot in his stomach is the only thing keeping the nervousness from swallowing him whole. His palms itch as he peers at the dispersing woods. They’re about the be on a highway, passing into Dinwiddie. They'd only stopped to fill up the tank and take a drink of water.

Daryl surprises him by turning the knob on the radio, preparing to switch it just as Paul recognizes the tune.

“Wait!” he yells, causing Daryl to turn with eyebrows slightly lifted up. “I like this song.”

“You kidding?” the older man sounds unimpressed, but otherwise doesn't seem too shaken.

He turns back to the pavement once Paul gives an ineffective shrug. With each passing moment, Daryl’s proving to be different than Paul initially thought. Proving to be difficult to interpret.

“You don't know the killers?” Paul teases. His head tilts back slightly, pony-tailed tresses wafting over his shoulder. “You injure my feelings.”

“I know ‘em,” Daryl utters under his breath. “Just don't listen to that shit. Not a whole lotta people down in Georgia who do.”

 _Georgia_ , Paul mentally jots down. That's where he's originally from.

Daryl keeps the knob on that station and continues to drive. Time wasts and pivots and pulls.

“That's unfortunate.”

The man doesn’t seem too irritated by the idea of having a passenger today. Maybe it's because there's no weapon pointed at him, Paul thinks. Or because the temperature’s become somewhat bearable in the time that's passed.

Daryl’s got insecurity and danger painted all over him. It's like he's his own tragic hero, nearly identical to the ones Paul’d read up on in old textbooks back when he had nothing else to do as a teenager.

There's something about being back in this car that plasters a certain tranquility through Paul’s nerves. His impulses have dulled down to a low throb at the back of his mind, and there are finally other people around—other witnesses. He isn't a perfectionist, but the less that goes wrong out here the better.

Daryl doesn't talk unless Paul does first, but he's okay with it so long as there isn't too much unpleasantness prowling between them.

Back outside the motel, he’d nearly expected Daryl to strike up a deal with him before driving on— _this and that or else this_. But it didn't happen that way. Even more shockingly, the man had _offered_ to take him. Why, Paul doesn't know. But he isn't about to let that dictate his underlying instinct to keep going. This could work, Paul thinks. Everything could work out as planned. He might even be able to use this time to shut his tired eyes for a while.

He tries his best not to think of the people back home, not to think of how much simpler things would be if Tara were here or how unpleasant his mood would be if it were Kal driving him instead of Daryl. The guy didn't even bother to try reaching out to him before splitting. _Pathetic_ , Paul thinks. But what more could he expect from a known junkie?

Other than Paul’s invasive thoughts and inevitable regret, today’s drive is uneventful. The older man seems to know the way without the map Paul’d picked up at the motel. He doesn't so much as ask for help with directions as he twists and turns out of lanes.

There are certain things Paul can't shake from his mind, though. There's something about those tapes from yesterday, which are now interestingly missing from where they’d been. But he's got no room to judge whatever it is. He only knows he can't wait to be out of this pitiful state. It seems like the weather will always be unpredictable.

Almost as unpredictable as Daryl, he thinks. But if there’s any type of theory he's pieced together about the other man, it's this: he's trying to escape from something too.

Paul’s phone buzzing in his jean pocket brings him out of deep thought. Expecting it to be Tara again, he dives his hand in and pulls the phone out to answer the text. What he sees instead is enough to make his jaw drop at 12 o'clock in the afternoon surrounded by dust particles and open windows.   

 

> **Unknown 12:04 PM**  
>  I've had better donuts. 

While the words would seem innocent to just about anyone else, Paul knows the hidden meaning in them. He tries to be discreet as he peers over at Daryl, but the older man doesn't seem to notice his inward panic. Any positivity he felt is instantly replaced with an undying dread.

When Paul got involved in this whole thing, he knew normalcy would be a thing of the past. He didn't know it’d turn into a damn _thriller_. He didn't know he'd have to jump off platforms to prove himself.

He wishes he could pinch himself awake from this nightmare, but he isn’t dreaming and they aren't kidding. They're the type of people who’d buy a place just to watch it implode.

 _They know where he is_. They know what he's done today—probably keeping track of his whereabouts. Paul peers over at Daryl a second time, but only the man’s profile shows. He's still preoccupied with driving.

In broad daylight, it's impossible to pinpoint faces in cars passing at 80 miles per hour.

Paranoia inks itself obnoxiously into Paul’s bones as if to say _I told you so_. The urge to jump is overwhelming, to turn himself in or let someone who knows what to do deal with this. Over everything, that one text plays on top of his overwhelmed thoughts.

 _Jesus fucking christ_. They're being watched.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to those who kudo'd / commented on chapter one! I truly appreciate your thoughts on this!


	3. Chapter 3

  
“I’m a Taurus, y'know.”

Daryl tilts his head just enough to glance at the younger man peripherally, but he doesn’t pretend to give a damn. He keeps driving with both hands tight around the wheel. Periodically, he’ll notice wide eyes peering directly at him when he pretends not to pay attention. It makes him itch. It seems to happen increasingly too, because it's Thursday and nearly two days since they met and Paul _still won’t stop talking._

He’s either talking the whole way or glancing down at the phone he'd said he didn't have like a jitterbug. It’s obvious he’s the type of person who likes to talk just to hear himself talk. The type of person who doesn’t understand the distinction between words and deadliness.

“It’s my star sign. You know, one of the 12 constellations—personality traits? The _zodiac_? You’ve _got_ to know what I’m talking about.”

Though he isn’t turning toward the passenger side, Daryl can picture perfectly the waiting stare he’s somehow used to.

His only instinct is to snort indifferently, pushing down on the pedal with more pressure as they drive further into unpopulated mountainous areas. Trees zoom by like pictures that weren’t meant to be permanent.

“Whatever.”

The worn leather to his vest pokes into his damp back until he thinks it’ll go numb. The windows are open and the air is cooler, yet it doesn’t change how overheated Daryl’s insides feel.

 _Wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong_ echoes at the back of his skull to the tune of his dead old man’s violence. And he's terrified of being terrified of a person who died years ago. Pissed at the way it never seems to really be over even after all these years and all this distance.

He doesn’t know how to throw the image away—it won’t wash out no matter how hard he tries. Somewhere deep down, he thinks he deserves it. Thinks it should play over and over until he can’t take it.

But this kid is soft and watered down and the complete opposite to his dead dad. And though he doesn’t truly know why he’s driving this panic-filled psycho to drop off what he knows is illegal drugs, he knows that. Trying to focus on the drive and this whole thing being over is what keeps him going for now. But he feels tiredness inking itself into his bones like it owns him.

Paul is talking away about some other disorganized topic. Daryl’s pretty much mastered the art of tuning it out.

Most of his private things are put away under lock and key, but the rest of it is prowling inside him. He thinks over and over about why he said he’d do this until he pictures a young man dead on the pavement, ocean eyes wide and pale and lifeless in their unsuccessful plea. The image sends a chill down Daryl’s spine and frustration to the parts of him that don’t want to be doing this.

The world outside is disillusioned and drenched in unknown territory, but that isn't the whole truth either. He doesn’t want to tell himself he’s been this way, but he knows there are drunk days in which he’s passed identical trees. Instinct dictates his every turn.

There’s some old David Bowie song throbbing from the radio that turns to background noise when the younger man decides to interrupt the tranquility for the thousandth time. It’s just another distraction Daryl isn’t sure what to make of.

“I know deep down, you find what I’m saying interesting,” Paul pronounces, voice all teasing and testing Daryl’s patience.

“Thought you didn’ have a phone,” he utters instead of playing along.

It’s plain that Paul can feel the shift because his words turn pitches different. “Uh, yeah,” he says uncomfortably. He clears his throat without provocation. “I didn’t until yesterday. This morning, technically.”

Daryl’s pretty much given up on trying to pry the whole thing out of the younger man. He’s talkative, yeah. But he isn’t an idiot. While Paul seems like he’s telling the truth, it’s impossible to tell when it sounds like he’s defending himself to a jury every time he opens his mouth.

He's even more panicky than he’d been just a day ago, grasping his phone tight enough to destroy it. It’s like he’s expecting the most important call in the world, and _hell_ , Daryl wouldn’t be taken aback if that were the case. He still peers out the window like the man who’d been following him all the way back in that old parking lot will jump out and take everything he owns, including himself.

But there are no possible murderers out here today. No walking threats from out of nowhere—that Daryl can _tell_. If there were, they’d definitely take out the driver before the passenger. 

The younger man's pack is tied around the back of his jacket, still important and still unwilling to be detached. He’d make the _worst_ dealer, Daryl thinks. Too obvious and too trusting. 

“We stopping again?” Paul asks out of the blue.

“Yeah,” Daryl utters back. “Pitstop.”

“Okay, but how much time do you think it’ll take until we get there?” The younger man is doing the tapping thing on his kneecap again, probably unaware of his own tick.

“ _Don’t know_ ,” Daryl huffs impatiently, hands tightening on the wheel.

Paul tells him there’s a place twenty minutes away—says he used some website to find it on his phone. The drought is nearly over too, he informs.

Unsettling nerves travel off of the younger man in waves, pushing past Daryl’s own defenses and delivering the blow right to the gut. With the way Paul twitches, he’s surprised the he hasn’t tried to dive out the window yet, illegal drugs and dangerous impulses in hand.

 _Prescription my ass_ , he thinks.

“You’re real weird, ya know that?” Daryl hears his own words. Then he's internally kicking himself when Paul says _Yeah, I know_ in a way that undefinably trips him up.

“I didn’ mean—”

“Don’t worry about it, seriously. I understand,” Paul interrupts, and then somehow, his voice is teasing again, like it’s his one defense mechanism. “You think you’re the first person to notice? You wish.”

And after a while, the younger man is anything but tenuous, uttering, “If it makes any difference, I think you’re kind of weird, too.”

Daryl can practically hear the smile in his voice and the pause in his own lungs and it pisses him off.

 

  
                                  ##

 

  
The parking lot to the tube-shaped diner they pull into is packed. Against _every_ odd imaginable. Daryl pulls into a tight spot all the way toward the back, pinched between a tall pickup truck and a jaguar that’s way too nice to be parked outside a dingy place like _Knox 24 Hour Diner._

The ignition shuts off with a dangerous _thud_. The piece of shit might’ve finally kicked out, he thinks. This parking lot might be its death bed. West Virginia isn't too terrible a place to die, though—it could be worse.

It’s just past 4:00 when Daryl checks the time on the dashboard and pockets his keys. He watches as Paul’s eyes widen taking in the amount of people inside.

“Your pick,” Daryl utters.

“Yeah.” The younger man unbuckles his seatbelt. “Yet I'm not known for my stellar decision making.”

Before they know it, they’re waiting in a line that’s nearly pooling outside. The diner itself is packed, towners and out of towners yelling at tv’s protruding from the ceiling and at workers trying to do their jobs. By the time a waitress notices their presence, it feels like they’ve been waiting a day.

The smell of overtly greasy food and tainted bullshit permeate the air. But they’ve got an image to upkeep.

“Table for two?” the older woman asks, fake smile plastered across her face in a way that tells Daryl it’s practiced.

Though she’s disguised under cherry lipstick and bright white teeth, her dead eyes give the whole thing up. Judgement is written over every piece of her as she looks between him and Paul with an odd expression painted over the parts she can’t hide. Paul is oblivious to it. Or he’s pretending to be. It's the kind of look that says _I know about you_. Daryl tells himself it's paranoia. That's it.

Luckily, the waitress doesn’t voice her thoughts. Just keeps going with the act before Daryl’s unfriendliness can take the opportunity to show itself.

“We have a couple booths left too, whichever you prefer.”

“Yeah,” Daryl says as Paul watches from a few inches away. “One’a those.”

“Thanks,” Paul adds timidly.

Daryl holds in a scoff at the younger man's instinctual politeness.

The waitress takes them to a table up against the wall. It’s directly under a wide window with sunlight pouring down in waves. There’s an unusable tv dangling from the ceiling, so low they would have to duck to see out the window.

Daryl orders the daily special without thinking too much about it while Paul orders a juice.

“I'm not that hungry,” he utters when Daryl peers over at him with an expression he knows is probably skeptical.

Having witnessed the way Paul tore into a sandwich probably worse than prison food back at that old gas station, Daryl finds it difficult to believe. But he lets the topic drop, instead focusing on the eggs and toast platter while his thumb desperately itches for a smoke to pinch. He watches the yolk run down the plate while Paul pretends not to pay attention.

The younger man is looking out the window and toward the wall and just about _anywhere_ except directly at Daryl. He doesn’t even drink the juice he ordered, just idly circles the glass with the tip of his finger. There’s a color-drained lip between his teeth, and if his hair weren’t up in a ponytail, Daryl’s positive he’d be pulling on it.

“Not doin’ this,” Daryl utters.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Paul says again, but this time, there’s no joke in his eyes and no play to his tone.

“Yeah,” Daryl grits through his teeth. “You do. You wanna go, do it—or don’t. I don't give a damn one way or the other. But don’t play this shit where you pretend I don’t know what you’re doin’.”

Daryl’s un-uttered follow up clouds the open space between them.

There’s an uncomfortable period of silence until the waitress returns to do the typical 'how’s it going' routine. The lack of expression on Paul’s face and the ingrained one on Daryl’s is enough to make her keep walking to the next table.

“I got a text,” Paul whispers, waiting for any type of reaction from Daryl that doesn’t come.

The younger man clears his throat and continues, words tight and forced. “Uh, yeah. Earlier today before we passed into Dinwiddie—one from someone whose number I’m pretty sure I don’t know.”

He keeps going when Daryl only watches. The older man's toes go numb, but he otherwise doesn't feel a thing. Not even disappointment or wrath.

“It’s just—I think I might’ve been wrong about them not knowing where I am. There’s no way of knowing unless—” he takes a deep gulp. “ _You know_.”

Daryl feels his knuckles go white as his hands involuntarily drop his fork and knife. There’s so much going on in the place that no one seems to notice a thing. The voices and the sounds from too many tv’s smash together like windows until he doesn't hear a thing. He understands why Paul isn’t hungry as yolk immediately stirs in his tight stomach.

“I know you doubt me. You doubt my sincerity. And you have every damn reason to because I—I shouldn't have _waited_. I didn't tell you the instant I got it and I know how fucked up it is that I didn't,” the younger man whisper-yells. Then he peers around to make sure no one’s tuning in. Still, his words are all dizzy and out of order in Daryl’s pounding eardrums. “I’ll understand if you take back your offer.”  
  
Daryl’s tongue is too thick to say anything back.

The sun seems to intensify just in time. This is the person who tried to jump him and who told the truth in pieces. He shouldn't have expected anything different.

“Gotta take a piss,” he utters after a while.

Paul visibly gulps, but nods and doesn’t watch as Daryl walks toward what he thinks is the bathroom they’d passed on the way in. He isn’t even sure if he’s upset or disturbed as he pushes the door open and nearly slams it shut. The most fucked up part is that he can’t take it out on the younger man, who proved to be jumpy and untrustable before he’d even opened the passenger door to Daryl’s BMW.

If he feels wrath, it’s thinly veiled and toward himself for being such a damn _idiot_. The prick is out there waiting and he can’t go back on his word. That’s what he tells himself as he droops the top of his tense body over an old sink and resists the urge to puke.

Everything is dirty inside, janitor mop thoughtlessly thrown against the wall and mold that’s probably been there for years. The paint on the walls is chipped and discolored. Distorted.

He wonders intermittently what type of information could possibly be important enough to nearly die for. The idea is idiotic and unprocessable. He wonders more often why days feel like weeks.

This was the wrong thing to do and the wrong time to do it, he thinks. But now the prick’s got a name. Now he’s _Paul_ and his days will probably be numbered if Daryl dips and he doesn’t know what to do. The urge to disappear still burns somewhere just under the skin, but it doesn't overtake him the way it did a day ago.

He inhales deeply through his nose, willing himself to keep it together though he knows it's impossible. There's an undying intensity that he’d previously been able to disguise heating up in his veins until he thinks they’ll pop open.

Part of him wishes he could go back to two days ago and park just about anywhere but that abandoned parking lot. But he can't. He didn’t. He's got a job to do.

It hits him just now that he hasn’t showered in days, the overwhelming scent of unwashed pits and day old sweat permeating his senses until he can taste it. He splashes ice cold water down the back of his neck and wonders why he ever thought taking it this far was a good idea. His t-shirt is the furthest thing from white, and he can feel tartar building up on his teeth from days without toothpaste.

He's disgusted with himself for the first time in a while.

Daryl unzips his pants to take the piss he knew he didn’t have to over a urinal before he finds himself pacing. People knock and yell, but he can’t find it in himself to give a damn.

Thinking about death is easy, simple. Daryl’s been doing it since he was a kid. Waiting for it—that's the hard part.

Peering at his own reflection only makes it worse. The bags under his eyes are deep and dark. He sees the signs of getting older—the greys, the wrinkles around his eyes. The signs of deteriorating against his will.

His own face is obscured by dark, unruly waves. Lips twisted in what can only be described as a scowl to most people. His own stare teases him, a doppelgänger daring him to try walking out. There’s too much pounding through his head for him to focus on one individual thing before jumping to the next.

 _You’ve got trust issues_ plays on top of everything in the most ironic way possible. It only makes it worse.

 

  
                                  ##

 

Daryl isn't sure how much time passes when he pulls it together and unlocks the door. It almost feels okay until his gut wrenches when _Paul isn’t at the table_. It's an instantaneous, unthinkable type of thing.

Walking up to it, everything is in place expect Paul. The juice is untouched. The plate is the way it was. The only difference is what looks like a tip thrown onto the table.

Did Paul ditch him? Did _they_  take him?

He didn’t expect to panic this much even though he knew it was inevitable. But he's known this part for a while: if you don't watch people, they disappear.

The only thing he can think to do is to just disappear himself, to go outside and drive away and keep driving.

He’s out the door when the low sound of talking from around the other side of the building punches him in the gut. He can just barely make it out under the thump of his pounding head.

It’s _Paul’s_ voice. Not dead. Not taken out.

Walking closer toward the noise allows him to make out words.

“..that text, didn’t you?” Paul questions, venom in his tone.

The voice that responds to him is deeper, but it doesn’t sound threatening. There's a strange type of intimacy between them. A toxic intimacy.

“Look, Jesus. They were on my tail and I couldn’t put myself back on their watch.”

“You’re ignoring my question, douchebag,” Paul utters back, and Daryl almost thinks it’s funny to hear him talk like that until he remembers why. “Don’t derail from the point.”

“Yeah _. Yes_. What do you want me to say? That it was the wrong thing to do? I sent you the text because I wanted to know you were okay.”

“ _Bullshit_ ,” Paul spits out. It's the most irritated Daryl’s heard him sound. He didn’t know the younger man was capable of it. “You knew what I’d think."

Then he starts to talk lower and Daryl has to strain himself to hear it. "You and I both know there's not a lot of people who know how to track phones like that.”

Daryl doesn’t announce his presence as he slowly walks toward where they’re talking, placing his back against the wall and peeking over to see them. Paul’s back is the first thing that comes into view. Then some taller, dark haired guy who’s clearly trying to show him up. They’re standing by a dumpster, whisper-yelling back and forth like they don't know there are people inside who might come outside and witness the whole thing.

“Don’t be so dramatic,” the douchebag tries to make excuses. “You weren’t in any real danger—”

“This isn’t about _me_ , Kal. I’m not traveling alone anymore. I—I got a partner now. And I can’t risk it. I just can’t. And the person I'm with? Better than you. Not some junkie who can’t keep his word.”

“What about protecting your identity?” the man asks, nostrils flaring. 

“I won't be outed,” Paul says with determination. "And please, spare me the theatrics."

This is when Daryl’s heart feels like it'll jump out, and he doesn’t know what to think or how to stop his feet from walking forward and probably blowing it.

Paul seems to be prepared to take off as soon as Kal peers behind him and reaches into his pocket, then he turns to see who it is and for once, his eyes don't widen.

“Kal, _don't_ ,” Paul says indisputably, eyebrows knit tightly together, voice low and dangerous. He's got his hands up and doesn't put them down until Kal changes his mind about the weapon he’d been about to pull out.

“This the guy, then?” Kal wonders aloud. “I’m impressed. I thought maybe you'd dragged Chambler’s ass down here.”

“Daryl,” Paul utters, unsure and surprised in the same instant. He completely ignores Kal once he knows Daryl’s there.

Daryl doesn’t say a thing as he watches the man inches away from Paul with what he knows is a glare.

“Who’s this?” he grunts out, testing the waters. His own weapon isn't with him. Not since yesterday.

“The one I told you about,” Paul says. “The one who was _supposed_ to pick me up yesterday.”

But Daryl isn’t looking at Paul while he talks, he’s looking directly at Kal the whole time and he doesn’t trust the guy as far as he can throw him. Kal watches Daryl back with just as much intensity.

“Jesus,” Kal utters to Paul. And god, is that really what people call this kid? “I don’t think it’s a good idea to be driving around with a guy like this,” he says obnoxiously. And it’s so obvious he’s tripped out on drugs that Daryl wants to laugh.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea to be tellin’ him what to do,” Daryl grits out. His fists tremble at his sides, wanting more than anything to go back to the way he used to be just this one time.

Paul looks trapped, desperate eyes pleading with Daryl’s. They’re a paradox in themselves, wide and tight at the same time.

Daryl doesn’t want to admit that it’s protectiveness he’s feeling as he inches closer to Paul.

“Why don’ we just go,” he whisper-yells. “This guy don’t matter.”

Paul seems to untwist and let out a long breath before nodding. 

Then Kal’s yelling, “He’ll get your ass killed! You hear that, Rovia? He’ll get you killed and I won’t be there to stop it. We were _together_ on this."

It's pitiful the way he begs. He might as well be on his knees.

“No,” Paul utters, "I was your pawn."

The younger man is out of breath and walking back toward the front part of the parking lot without so much as another word.

"You're gonna walk out on me now, too? Because if you do, you're as bad as I am."

Paul pauses for the smallest moment, but he's walking again in the same instant. Unwilling to give the prick any more of his time. 

“You’re terrible!” is the last thing Kal tries to yell to Paul, but the younger man is already too far to turn back.

Daryl turns too until the prick has something else to say.

“You don’t know him like I do, man,” Kal says lowly to Daryl. “He isn’t what you think. That pretty boy innocent thing? It’s bullshit. Don't buy it.”

“Think it's time for you to go,” Daryl threatens. The prick seems impacted enough to keep his mouth shut.

Daryl doesn’t walk back up until he’s sure the druggie won’t bother them.

By the time he makes it to the front portion of the parking lot, Paul is up against the car with his head down, hands tight over the top of it.

A sense of dread fills Daryl's insides.

“Hey. Kid,” he tries, walking around to the door and unlocking the car. “Uh, you good?” The words feel foreign on the tip of his tongue. This isn't something he does often.

When the younger man looks up, his dilated pupils tell the whole story. “I’m really a piece of shit, aren't I? I dragged you into this and now—”

“That’s bull, man,” Daryl interrupts, even if he doesn’t wholly believe it. “You fucked up. That’s it. But you ain’t a piece of shit if I’ve ever known one. And I’m the one drivin'. I'm doin’ this too.”

“I thought you’d drive away—walk out,” Paul utters. “This time, I mean. I thought you really would.”

Daryl doesn’t tell Paul he’d thought the same thing inside the diner when the younger man disappeared. 

“I thought we been over this,” Daryl says, his own voice less tense.

“I should’ve let them kill me. Or turn myself in. It’d be over by now. I mean, _prison_ is better than—"

Now, Daryl is certain he’s upset. “Nah. _That’s_ shit. You’re gonna get back in the damn car and that's it.”

Paul laughs in spite of himself, knuckles untightening as he pulls himself up to walk around to the passenger door. “Is that a threat?”’

“Get in the car or I’ll personally kick your ass,” Daryl says back, but it isn’t a threat. It sounds like a promise.

 

 

                                  ##

 

  
“Kal sent the text, yeah. But it doesn’t mean they aren’t watching.”

Daryl doesn’t say anything, just keeps driving through the dark. The dashboard numbers light up dust particles, reflecting a blue glow across their faces. There are no other drivers taking this backroad.

"It wasn't me I was worried about back there."

Things are different, somehow. Different since Paul called Daryl a _partner_ and different since Daryl took the kid back despite everything. The words don't thaw out the ice in his veins, but they do warm him up in other ways.

“Jesus?” Daryl asks, but it’s posed as more of a statement than a question. If anything he thinks it’s pretentious. Thinks it'll get him out of talking about things he'd prefer not to discuss. “You into higher powers or what?”

“No,” Paul utters too quickly. “It’s just what my friend—well, it’s what people call me sometimes.”

“Kal guy ain’t your friend?”

“Definitely not,” he deadpans. “Just an unfortunate acquaintance."

"You don't have to call me that, though," Paul utters as an afterthought.

"Wasn't gonna," Daryl snorts.

Paul's face goes dark as he keeps talking. "I don't know why I bothered in the first place. He turned out exactly how I thought he would. And the funny thing is, I know he doesn't know how to tap phones. Doesn't even have the decency to tell me who helped track us down.”

There’s a long period of silence as Daryl lets the words sink in, trying not to instantly dispute them. The temperature drops drastically within the span on a couple minutes. He wishes he had a jacket.

“I can drive for a while,” the younger man offers. “If you’re tired.”

“Ain’t tired,” Daryl utters, and it isn’t true. It’s past twelve and his fingers are twitching.

“You sure? I _do_ know how to drive, if that’s what you’re worried about. Took the test and—”

“ _Yeah_ , kid. 'm sure.”

“Okay,” the younger man says, though he doesn’t sound like he believes him. Daryl doesn’t blame him. He’s practically a zombie and he can't remember the last time he shut his eyes for more than two hours.

“I was thinking maybe you're a pisces,” Paul whispers out of nowhere. “Definitely a water sign.”

And because the world can never be at peace, things start to go wrong.

They’re driving by the woods when the BMW begins to slow down, violent bangs knocking through the pipes.

“That doesn’t sound too good." Paul is once again in wake mode.

“ _No shit_ ,” comes Daryl’s dead reply. He's too tired to hold it back.

The weathered mood between them dissipates instantly.

“I don’t do well under pressure,” the younger man utters.

“Yeah, well. Maybe you shoulda thought'a that before you tried to jump me.” He isn’t sure if he meant to be harsh, but he isn’t thinking about it. The only thing that’s kept him moving doesn't even work properly, and it’s obvious.

He drives up to the edge of the empty path to park along the trees just as it kicks out. He could poke and prod the wires the way he's done inumerable times, but it doesn't feel like it would worth it.

“ _Shit_ ,” he says, kicking the dashboard hard before pushing the door open. He can’t even feel the part of him that’s disgusted when Paul winces away. “Goddamn piece of shit!” he yells out, kicking the outside too. He ignores the thumping pain that comes from it.

“Daryl?” Paul calls worriedly, but he's already out and walking into the woods. “What’re you doing?”

Paul doesn’t follow, though. And Daryl's glad not to have another thing to take out his impatience on.

He walks and walks until he thinks walking away is all he’ll ever know how to do when things get too difficult. If there _is_ anything out in the woods, he doesn’t have a knife or a jericho to protect him this time.

In this instant, that isn't important. The only important thing is going deeper.

Pulling out his pack of smokes, he sparks one up quick, nearly adding another burn to his thumb in the process. The flame burns blue and amber, smoke dusting his throat in a way that's familiar.

But his heart is still palpitating. His mind is still overworked.

Trees are all he sees in the pitch dark, all parallel and jagged and too tall. His whole life as a kid in one place.

And it's too much. It’s the way he tried to make it work with people who died years ago. The way the permanent scars in his back tighten with phantom pains at least once a week. He used to _know_ it was what he deserved, but now, he isn't sure what he knows.

 _Paul_ flashes intrusively through his mind, and he knows why this time. Paul. Rovia. Immature highjacker and impromptu drug transporter. _Jesus_.

But it isn't enough of a distraction. There's still all the shit that's twisting up his insides. Usually when his past tries to tear its way through his throat, he punches back with a drink and then more and then _more_. Maybe he'll be a drunk like his dad, he thinks. Maybe that's the way it was supposed to turn out. It’s become increasingly difficult to tell the difference.

But he doesn't need to be drunk to be dizzy these days. His own body tells him what to do as his boots drag patterns in the dirt. 

And he doesn't have a drink out here. No whiskey to drown his thoughts until they overfill. He wishes he could undo it all—peel the scars from off his back. Be better and smarter. But even he knows it's impossible to undone permanent damage.

His eyes burn more intensely than the knot in his throat as smoke whirls itself into them. But he doesn’t give a damn. In this instant, he doesn’t give a damn about those tapes in his glove compartment and he doesn’t give a damn about what he walked out on years ago.

Instead of dwelling, he takes a piss behind a wide oak tree and inhales until he’s certain his lungs are completely black. Everything is more disgusting and more exposed in the dark.

When his head begins to pound again, he pushes it violently into a tree and finally lets himself puke. It happens in waves, first it’s yolk and unprocessed pieces of toast. Then it’s dark liquid and other things that aren’t meant to come out. His eyes shut tightly when it’s over, hands wiping at his mouth with the rag from his jean pocket.

He pictures everything out in the open—Paul discovering his tapes and his unopened pill bottle. His ugly past. It’s all there. He thinks of the trunk popping open and tearing itself apart while he watches.

Daryl tracks his way back to the car slowly, pulling his booted feet through the dirt and wondering for the thousandth time what the hell he’s doing out here. There’s a thunderstorm threatening from up above—all the signs are directly there. He didn't know how deep into the woods he'd gone until he feels the passing of time.

The tension doesn’t hit him until the car is in view, a bright light blinking on and off in the span on a second. But it's enough time to feel his stomach drop. He’d been too worked up to take his phone off the dashboard. _A simple thing. A simple thing he didn't do._

Walking up, he sees what Paul’s peering directly at and thinks his head really will implode right there, inches from the door and an impending doom. He isn’t certain he properly processes what the younger man says next. Out of nowhere, things start to turn black.

“Daryl?” Paul whispers, wide eyes bright as the ocean even in darkness. “Who’s Rick?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks.


	4. Chapter 4

The downpour is incessant. Thunder pounds from up above, water falling down in disastrous drops with it. It’s nothing compared to the way Paul’s lungs drain themselves, breathes uneven and desperate for oxygen.

Daryl’s unresponsive body is sprawled out on the wet pavement, just outside the woods he’d stormed back out of after leaving Paul waiting for nearly an hour in the passenger seat. Even with the treeline so dispersed, water drips into everything that isn't inside the dusty warmth of Daryl’s old BMW.

The older man’s body is twisted into an unsettling position, and it's too difficult to make out what's what in the pitch dark.

Paul’d watched it happen just moments ago. It’d taken place so instantaneously. Daryl’s phone blinking on from its place on the dashboard. The text Paul’s eyes were instantly drawn to. Daryl walking out of the woods, stride dizzy and unsure. The inquiry Paul knows he should've just kept to himself.

Then Daryl blacking out inches from the passenger door—so out of the ordinary and so unexpected that Paul’d thought he imagined it until he jumped out the car and witnessed it for himself.

The older man’s pulse is slow, but it's there. When Paul turns on his phone to make out more detail, Daryl’s lips are parted and discolored. But there's still movement where involuntary breaths inhale and exhale. Paul tries desperately to wake him up—to understand what went wrong. But it doesn't work. Daryl’s knocked out.

The panic doesn't hit Paul until he peers up and sees only darkness along with the occasional lightning strike. It's physically disturbing how out in the open they are.

“You gotta wake up,” Paul whispers shakily, staring intently down though he knows Daryl’s eyes aren't open to see it. He can feel his bottom lip trembling, but he can’t stop the motion. “You said you'd drive me there. Y-you can't just back out now, Dixon.”

He takes a deep breath he knows won't help in a pathetic attempt to placate his overworked mind. This wasn’t the plan. It's the furthest thing from the original plan and the whole thing is turning ugly.

The idea of calling the police lingers in the back of the younger man’s mind until he thinks of his pack in the backseat and what's in it. How obvious it is to people who _aren't_ trained cops. But then there's Daryl’s passed out body and water distorting his vision and the knowledge that he _can't deal with this on his own._

It’d be over if he called the police. It would've all been for nothing after all the things he's done. All the terrible things they’ve forced him to do over the years.

But he isn't a doctor and he sure as hell doesn't know if this is at all normal. Daryl was tired—he’d watched just how tired the older man was as he drove and it's the exhaustion that did this, Paul tells himself over and over. Over thinking it would be pointless.

_Daryl was tired. He passed out due to the heat and the tiredness._

The only thing Paul can think to do is to drag Daryl’s limp body to the backseat, trying to be careful but inevitably wincing when he feels twigs breaking under his own shoes and what has to be Daryl too.

Daryl isn't exactly easy weight to hold, either. Especially not wet. Paul has to use his whole upper body to pull him into the car. He hopes that the jostling will shock the older man awake, but it doesn't. And the panic worsens.

It doesn't make sense that Daryl was walking one second and dropping in the next. Neither does the oddly worded text Paul’d only gotten a glimpse of before everything went to shit. It's impossible to know what to do with your own heart thudding painfully in your eardrums—when there’s a passed out man you met two days ago unmoving in the back of a car that isn't yours.

He can’t help but to notice the irony of what’s happening. He’d offered to drive not too long ago and now, he’s got no choice but to take over. It's moments like these he wishes he decided to keep taking those pills he’d been so dependent on.

“Please,” Paul whispers, voice shaky and terrified.

He's got the back door open, peering intently done at Daryl’s peacefully unmoving features. While he's out, there's no permanent twist to his lips or piercing blue-greys. No pained expression hidden under a poker face.

Paul unzips his jacket and throws it over the older man’s wet top, not caring about his own goosebumps. In this instant, he can't help the intrusive thought that Daryl has all the physical qualities of an inanimate object.

He _isn't_ , though. His pulse is throbbing and Paul knows deep down that he's strong enough to pull through whatever this is. Paul’d only seen people pass out on tv—doesn't know how long it'll be before Daryl wakes up. But he _will_ wake up.

The inflamed shiver that travels down the younger man’s spine has got nothing to do with the weather.

Paul taps the side of the man’s face, thinks about prying his eyelids open to see if his pupils will respond to the phone light. But Daryl won't respond to his pleas.

Without thinking, Paul walks to the driver’s side and grabs the keys off the dashboard. His top is only partially dry and the seat is incredibly uncomfortable when wet. Out of frustration and uncertainty, he nearly kicks the dashboard himself. In this instant, he _does_ feel like a kid.

With a peer back at Daryl's unmoving form in the back, Paul turns the key in the ignition and holds his breathe while he waits. He used to know how to work wires, but that was a long time ago and this car is too old. It's this or it's done.

It’s the waiting that has his head pounding, but the engine kicks to life just as Paul feels his eyebrows unknit. There’s something about being in the driver’s seat that feels wrong, like he’s taking this thing that isn’t his to take even if the person who owns it is still there, too.

They’re at the top of West Virginia, _hours_ from Ohio if his phone is trustworthy. He could be there by tomorrow—by _later today_. An itch tells him to take off to his destination and to not look back. But there’s only one place he can think to go underneath the itch. One person he can think that could possibly make this okay.

Paul peers back at Daryl again, but nothing’s different. His pack is there and his jacket is thrown protectively over the older man and none of it makes this okay. A weird numbness passes over him as he turns back to the pavement, flicking the headlights on with one deft movement as he prepares to drive.

The windshield wipers turn on directly after that.

“Looks like we’re taking a detour,” Paul whispers into the dark.

  
                                  ##

  
Paul watches Daryl intently from where he sits inches away. The older man is disastrously laid out on the sofa with his lips parted and head tilted back. Hours have passed and he isn’t awake yet.

An icy glass of water trembles between Paul’s unstable fingers. It’s impossible to ignore the ticking clock on the wall to the left. There’s a dog-eared graphic novel and tv remote on the table, but that isn’t what his mind is drifting toward.

Instead of just sitting and waiting, he figures he’ll do something useful. He’d paced for a while, nearly burning a hole in the floor until he forced himself to stop. Then he’d thrown a towel over Daryl’s drying body. That was when they’d first arrived to the place in Pittsburgh. Paul’d parked as close to the back door as possible and not-so-gently dragged Daryl’s body inside after picking the lock with ease.

It isn’t pouring out here the way it was in West Virginia, but everything outside is drowsy and the sky is dark as possible. Tara’s place isn’t too big as far as dimensions go, but it’s warm and tidy and it’s what home should be like. It’s got old photographs and books they used to take turns memorizing when they were younger. It’s one of the only places left he knows he’s still welcomed.

Paul showers in under ten minutes, drying himself off and finding solace in the warmth of a familiar towel. Tara won’t be home for a while, he thinks. If memory serves him well, she'll be at the police academy until at least 10:00 PM. He doesn’t bother to try calling. He knows she isn’t allowed to have her phone on during the day.

When he walks out of the bathroom and to the bedroom, he finds himself involuntarily shaking his head as he sees that Tara still hasn’t gotten around to re-painting. He feels himself sigh when he opens the bottom drawer to the dresser and sees that his bag of things is still there. She kept it.

Dressing into a clean outfit for the first time in a while makes him feel immensely better. He pulls his wet tresses up and peers at himself in the mirror. He could use a trim, but his face isn’t so discolored since he last checked and his pupils are back to normal. If it weren’t for the reason they were here, he might think things were going okay.

Looking out the window tells him that there isn’t too much going on outside. There’re chirping insects and the occasional bark of a dog from a different backyard, but it’s otherwise tranquil. Tara lives in the suburbs of the town, away from all the people and all the excitement.

Everything is nearly identical to the way it’d been the last time he visited. There isn’t anything in the kitchen besides a carton of eggs and a thing of juice that looks like it’s seen better days. But the plants are watered. There’re dishes in the sink. People have definitely been here within the week.

Paul snorts softly to himself when he sees old Taco Bell wrappers piling out of the trash. His best friend still eats like a pig even during police training.

Walking out into the hallway and back toward the tv room, he’s immediately shocked when he’s hit with those intense blue-greys piercing holes into him as they delve further into his own. There’s a weird paradox of uneasiness and relief pulsing through his veins as he watches Daryl watch him back.

“You’re up.”

“You drove.”

Daryl peers at Paul with the watered down wildness of something tamed, but not domesticated. It shows in the way it’s obvious how weighed down he is by being in this unfamiliar place that’s anything but unfamiliar to Paul.

The younger man walks around to the table and sits, placing himself a careful distance from Daryl still positioned on the sofa. It looks like Daryl actually drank some of the water Paul left, but the older man looks weak in a way where he's trying not to show it.

“Yeah, well. You didn’t give me too much of a choice when you passed out back there.”

Daryl doesn’t say anything back, just sighs deeply in a way Paul can’t interpret and begins to purposely shut his eyes.

“You should try to stay awake,” Paul utters before he can stop himself, jumping up slightly at the idea of waiting again.

“You worried I’ll kick out on you?”

“Yeah, actually.” Paul keeps his tone as even as possible. “You were out for a while. I didn’t know what happened.”

There’s a dragged out period of silence while Paul waits for Daryl to answer his un-uttered question. To his distress, the older man tip toes around the topic by staying quiet.

“There wasn’t too much traffic,” Paul continues, unsure of what to do with his hands as they grip the table. “Your car took a second to start up, but, we made good time otherwise.”

Daryl peers around as Paul speaks, seemingly taking in every tiny detail with his keen eyes. His lips part but he doesn’t say anything, just darts his tongue out to wet dry lips and Paul finds that he doesn’t want to look away from the motion. It doesn’t go unnoticed by Daryl, and the younger man is glad his hands are tucked under the table so the older man won’t see them shake.

“We’re at my friend Tara’s house in Pennsylvania,” Paul utters. “I put your keys on the counter in the kitchen.”

Daryl clears his throat, and it’s just occurred to Paul that he might actually be having difficulty forming words. “Your friend ain’t here?”

“She will be tonight. She trains up at the police academy during the week.”

Daryl’s eyebrows shoot up, and Paul can’t hold back a snorted laugh.

“I know, I know. It’s ironic. But she understands. We don’t really talk about the uh, you know.”

“ _Do I?_ ” Daryl tests, voice deep and taunting.

Something in his throat makes Paul’s next words shake. “I thought you did.”

“I ain’t a damn idiot,” Daryl utters, pulling himself into a sitting position with a pained expression. “But it’s more than jus’ the drugs, right? More’n just what they pay you.”

Paul feels himself getting worked up, and he doesn’t even know why. It's true. “I’m not an idiot either, y’know. Why won’t you tell me what happened out there? Why’d you pass out like that?”

“It don’t matter.”

“Yeah,” Paul utters tightly. “It does. Do _you_ even know why?”

Daryl’s jaw tightens and untightens before he speaks again, tone intimidating. But the younger man won’t back down. “Why d’you care so goddamn much?”

“ _Why don't you?_ ”

Daryl doesn’t say anything but stares deeply into Paul’s own eyes, deep blue meeting turning tides. It feels like an eternity passes before Paul works up the nerve to form words.

“I want you to trust me, Daryl.”

“Tell the truth, then,” Daryl spits back weakly. “ _Prove it_.”

Paul’s insides still at the words that sound painfully like an accusation. He knew he’d have to tell more to his traveling partner at some point, but he doesn’t think he’s prepared to go into the details. Either way, it’ll be today or he’ll probably be watching another person walk out on him. So he takes a dangerous jump into unknown territory.

“The whole thing? Or the watered down version?”

“Whole thing,” Daryl utters without hesitating.

Paul’s lip is tucked between his teeth so tight he thinks it’ll break the skin. He focuses in on the windowpane until he thinks he can see each individual dew particle, tight fingers turning to knuckles at his sides before he works up the nerve to look back toward Daryl.

“I’m looking for my parents.”

Daryl’s eyebrows knit together, tongue coming out to wet his lips yet again.

“The information I told you they’d give me when I delivered the package? Well, it’s that. I’ve been trying to find them for awhile, but _they_ know things I don’t.”

Paul’s hands tremble uncontrollably now. He’s only ever told these things to a couple people, one of which is gone now. He’d been searching on his own for years, trying desperately to find the people who left him on his own all that time ago. But when he joined _them_ , he knew there'd be a real chance. They’re terrible people, but they keep their word. That’s what Paul tells himself every time he wants to stop working for them. Unfortunately, it doesn’t work that way, either. Once you’re in, you don’t get to drop out.

“Tara and I grew up together. A group home in Manhattan called _'Temporary Shelter for Troubled Youth'_.”

Paul waits to see if Daryl will say something, but he only watches intently. With a terrible start, the younger man jumps further.

“I was one of the only two openly gay kids in the whole place.” Paul pauses, heart thudding as he tries to gauge Daryl’s reaction to the words, but the other man’s poker face is painstakingly intact. “Tara was the other one. Neither of us had a family or any kind of outlet, so we stuck together. We made our own—protected each other when no else would.”

Paul inhales deeply, unsure of what direction he's taking.

“Keep goin’,” Daryl utters softly, a breakthrough in his otherwise deep, tough voice.

And though his eyes are inherently icy, they’re warm in this instant. Warm enough to make Paul keep talking.

“The drug thing didn’t start til I left. Things were as okay as they were going to be before that, but Tara and I got split up when we were teenagers. Didn’t see her for over a year and that’s when things got worse. Everything was going downhill, I was on my own for a while. A _while_. _They_ took me in and I was dumb enough to think it was genuine. But uh, they used me. Still are.”

This is difficult, but pushing through is the only option at this point. Paul clears his tight throat, tries to act like saying all this isn’t making him want to shed tears and walk out. Daryl seems to ponder the words, peering over different parts of Paul before he clears his own throat and takes a drink of the water.

“Thanks,” he whispers without making eye contact. “For tellin’ me, I mean. I wouldn’t’ve asked you t’say all that.”

“I know,” Paul utters truthfully. “But I wanted to.”

They’re making a breakthrough, talking without the tension and breaking ice. The sun is beginning to shine through the window, directly over Daryl. The man stands suddenly and almost trips back over.

“Take it easy,” Paul worries, standing up himself and nearly reaching out to steady the other man until that untrusting glint shines through his eyes again.

Daryl unintentionally turns himself away from the younger man. Or intentionally—Paul doesn't know.

He tries not to let the dejection dig into him too much. After all, the first time Paul’d touched the older man had been with the imprint of his own gun.

“Time is it?” Daryl whispers, picking at his thumb and walking the length of the tv room, creating more distance between them.

Paul looks down at his phone, turning it on and pretending only to look down at the numbers. “Almost 8 o’clock,” he whispers. He doesn’t know why they’re talking so low when it’s just the two of them.

He watches Daryl pace, feels his own fear at the idea of him dropping again, physically or otherwise. “We can wait a while before we go back out. I don’t mind if we take some time.”

Daryl looks insulted, turning to Paul with his lips twisted. “Don’t need time.”

“That’s what you told me before, though. And look what happened. Is there something wrong with you? Is it—”

“ _No_ , kid.” The dangerous look in the older man’s tilted eyes is enough to stop Paul in his tracks. They both stay planted where they are. “Just drop it, alright? It ain’t your problem.”

“Then who’s—”

“Nobody,” Daryl interrupts, thumb going back between his teeth and eyes downcast insecurely. He doesn't even let Paul get the name out.

“You’re a pretty terrible liar.”

“Touché.”

Paul feels himself beginning to pace too, opposite to the other man and near the tv. Daryl won’t even look directly at him, hovering like a wild animal near the door in a way that tells Paul it didn’t just happen that way by any odd chance.

“What’s it going to take for you to tell me something about yourself, too?” Paul whispers. “Would it be so terrible if we actually knew each other during this thing?”

“What d’you want?” Daryl utters, teeth clenched with one knuckle wrapped around the doorframe.

“I want to know things like the things I’ve told you. Like how long have you been on your own? What’s up with you? Where do you really want to be?”

Paul decides to be bold though he knows the other man will probably deflect his inquiries.

“You wouldn’ understand, kid.”

Paul nods his head though he disagrees and Daryl isn’t looking his way. He’ll have to keep trying, then.

“Okay,” the younger man whispers spitefully through his own teeth. “You keep telling yourself that, Dixon.”

 

                                  ##

  
A while later, Paul watches tv on the lowest volume possible while Daryl washes up in the other room. He’d left a towel and his biggest shirt in the bathroom for Daryl to use if he wanted to. He knows that with his own thin build and Daryl’s obviously toned one, it might not work out. But he had to try.

Their talk earlier wasn’t a fight—neither of them had even yelled. But it feels that way as Paul flips through channels to watch old shows he doesn’t give a damn about.

Daryl comes back into the room after one episode of Home Improvement, footsteps nearly undetectable. His shadow is the only thing that warns Paul of his presence. When the younger man looks up, he sees that Daryl decided to put the shirt on and even thoroughly wash. He looks different without layers of dirt to hide behind. Something about the way Paul’s worn out shirt tightens over Daryl’s toned build makes Paul do a double take. It only kind of fits. The other man’s body is damp from the shower he’d taken as he wipes through his hair with the towel. He’s paying enough attention to see Daryl’s jaw twitch.

“Thanks,” the older man utters, walking around and sitting as far from the younger man as possible on the only sofa Tara owns.

Paul winces internally when he realizes he’s only staring with his mouth wide open. “Uh, yeah. You’re welcome. It’s no problem. Tara wouldn’t mind.”

His cheeks turn pink as he resists the urge to knock his head into the table. It’s partly due to the knowledge that Daryl knows things about him now. Important things.

The older man’s insanely perfect poker face doesn’t make it better, either. He watches Daryl inspect a purple-blue bruise forming on one of his arms from where he’d landed on a twig back in West Virginia. He’s got his vest tucked under one bicep and pack of cigarettes under the other.

“When d'you wanna head back out?” he huffs, pulling Paul out of distraction.

“I was thinking we could wait until tomorrow. Let us get some real sleep, you know.” _Let you get better_ , he thinks.

Daryl looks like he wants to dispute Paul’s words, but something transforms and he nods instead. The older man nearly seems more eager to get back out there than he does. Neither of them like to be in one place for too long, the younger man observes.

He doesn’t plan on him and Daryl staying too long, either way. _They_ don’t know about this place, and he wants to keep it that way.

“I’ll probably order a pizza or something when Tara gets home.”

Daryl’s face falters for an instant. But he nods, then they’re both pretending to watch whatever it is that’s on tv until the silence is too much to take.

“Why?” the older man utters.

“I couldn’t just leave you out there. You wouldn’t have left me.”

“How d’you know I wouldn’ta?”

Paul looks at Daryl for a while, a weird type of intimacy between that he isn’t sure if he imagined. “I just do.”

“Wasn’t my idea t’do this,” Daryl says under his breath. He’s still talking out of the side of his mouth, one thumb tucked under his thin bottom lip.

“It kind of was, though,” Paul jokes, relieved that his teasing nature hasn’t entirely dissipated. “ _I’ll take you? I'll personally kick your ass if you don't_ —”

Daryl snorts deep in his throat, a twist to his lips that Paul is certain would be a smile if he weren’t so damn stubborn about letting anything other than tension play on his face.

Paul’s insides still for a moment before he utters, “I don’t have a choice in this. Not at this point. You do.”

“I know I do,” Daryl says after a while, voice determined and only slightly upset. He’s constantly pulling himself up when he speaks, as if unconsciously defending himself from an unseen threat.

“Good,” Paul returns, and he means it. He doesn’t want Daryl to think any of this is against his will despite the terrible way in which it started. He’s hoping naively that they can put their first meeting out in that parking lot behind them. He hopes Daryl understands that there’s some things you have to do even if it isn’t what you want. “Then we’re okay?”

Daryl’s eyes narrow, inspecting Paul as if searching for a deeper meaning behind the inquiry. “Yeah,” he huffs out eventually. “For however long that’ll be.”

 

                                 ##

 

They stop pretending and start watching the tv now, tension easing with each passing moment. Paul even lets himself feel it. He’s still watching Daryl peripherally, making sure the other man doesn’t knock out or jump up again. It’s well past the afternoon now, no more wetness on the dark street outside and less pressure inside. He’s tired—exhausted. All he’d done earlier was watch Daryl sleep and pace up and down the length of the hallway. But he doesn’t want to close his eyes now. He wants to pay attention to everything happening.

“You know,” he says after a while. “There’s one thing I definitely like about being out of New York.”

The other man turns his head slightly to show that he’s listening.

“The people back there,” Paul continues, unsure of why he’s even saying this. “They were vicious. I mean, tear you apart with ugly words and worse punches vicious. The orphanage always told me dumb shit like _just punch the clock, just keep going. You won’t feel it_. But I _did_ feel it, you know? Every damn time. Every time they hit me. Every time they called me a queer and every time the owners turned their backs instead of defending me. You know Tara was the only fucking one? The only person who ever gave two shits about me back there?”

Daryl looks over at Paul with another one of his undetectable faces. Paul knows he’s tired and that it’s making him talk too much, but he can’t stop. The itch to jump is back and as present as ever. He feels his eyes welling up before he can stop the intrusive thing he knows is detachment unspoken for too long.

“I just need to look them directly in the eye, and to know that it’s them,” he says about his parents—his debilitating sperm donors who left him on a doorstep as an infant. “I need to know why they didn’t want me, in their words.”

There’s a long period of silence as Paul feels himself practically shrinking. He feels like the smallest thing in the world when he talks about that place and those people, even if it takes a huge weight off his shoulders.

“I know the feelin’,” Daryl utters after a while. But he doesn’t elaborate on what exactly that means.

Before Paul can ask, there’s a double knock at the door that has them both jumping up in alarm. Paul tip toes to the window and peeks out at the driveway where the side door is. It’s one of those windows where he can see whatever’s outside but whatever’s outside can’t detect him. His pupils widen as they adjust to the dark. There’s nothing to worry about though. Paul feels an instant relief wash over him. It’s Tara.

“What’s up?” Daryl whisper-yells through his teeth from where he kneels by the window over near the kitchen. He's posed as if he’d have his jericho in one hand and a knife in the other.

Paul wipes drops from under his tired eyes before he’s walking down to the door and untwisting the knob. “Nothing. Everything’s okay.”

And it’s the truth.

Tara nearly tackles him in a hug as soon as the door is open.

“You forget your key?”

“Dude,” she gasps, wide smile plastered across her face. “What the _hell_ are you doing here?”

“Bit of an obstacle in the plans,” he utters, laughing involuntarily when the dark haired woman punches his shoulder with enough pressure to make him stumble backward. She’s in uniform and everything, all professional and seemingly happy with her progress.

“I knew it,” she says deftly.

“You _did not_.”

Tara’s about to joke back when her umber eyes drift somewhere behind Paul. She’s in police mode instantly, pulling herself up taller and knitting dark eyebrows together.

“Tara,” Paul utters, turning behind to peer at the man precautiously walking over. He probably should have introduced them differently and sooner, but now is as good a time as any. “This is Daryl. Daryl. This is my friend Tara.”

Daryl’s shy all of the sudden, staying close to the wall and unwilling to walk more than a couple yards their way.

Tara goes to him instead, holding out her fist inches from the older man’s. She laughs when he does nothing, peering down at the outstretched knuckle. “Come on, it’s a fist bump. Introductory type of thing?”

She taps Daryl’s own fist despite the hesitance, and Paul feels something good travel through him when the older man doesn’t twitch away. “It's nice to meet you.”

“You too,” Daryl utters inelegantly, obviously unused to saying the words. It doesn’t look like he knows what to do with his hands as he peers around her to see that the younger man is still by the partially open door.

She turns back to Paul with a devious look in her eyes, but he shakes his head in warning.

Tara laughs deep in her throat. “That works for me.”

  
                                 ##

  
Later, things turn inevitably more serious. They walk into the kitchen, this time, Paul and Tara sitting at the table while Daryl opts to hover by the doorway.

“What do you mean by ‘obstacle in plans’?”

Paul looks over at Daryl, but the poker face tells him he’ll have to decide on his own which parts to tell Tara. “Daryl’s car broke down. The thing’s kind of testy and we were in a dangerous area. Drove here because I knew it’d be better than out there.”

Tara nods skeptically, peering over at Daryl then back at Paul. Something about the way Daryl peers back at her makes her eyes go soft, as if she’s had an internal understanding. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” Paul utters back, unspoken words playing between them in a way that’s second nature after all these years.

“For a minute, I thought you were here because it was over, Paul.”

Paul feels his eyes water up, and he hates himself for being so vulnerable today. “Don’t get all sappy on me, Tar.”

“Wasn’t my intention,” she smiles sadly, trying and failing to disguise it from him. “You heading back out tomorrow?”

“The clock is ticking,” Paul replies, unable to swallow down the knot in his throat.

“Just wish it wasn’t ticking on our time, I guess.”

Daryl’s looking out the window, but Paul knows just enough about him to tell that he’s paying attention to what they’re saying.

“What do you eat, Tara?” Paul whispers after an uncharacteristic pause between the two of them. “There isn’t anything in the fridge.”

“Usually take out,” she shrugs disinterestedly. The previous topic is obviously still bothering her.

It’s unbelievably good to see her after all these weeks, but it also reminds him of all the things he isn’t allowed to hold onto anymore because of his dedication to _them_. Even to Dwight who he’s been trying to get away from permanently for way too long.

Daryl disappears from the kitchen doorway just as Tara pulls a pack of beers from under the table and pops one open. Paul walks after him without thinking about it. The older man is near the door and Paul’s about to utter something dumb when Daryl does first.

“Scorpio.”

The younger man is duped at the single word.

“That zodiac shit you were talkin’ bout?” Daryl explains as if it’s obvious, blue eyes turned dark under the dim light. “You said ya though I was a pisces. But ‘m not.”

Paul can only shake his head to himself. Daryl _does_ pay attention to the things he says. Even the tiny details. “I was right about you being a water sign, then.”

Daryl snorts, but it isn't dismissive. “Guess you were.”

“Yeah,” Paul utters to himself, a warm feeling flooding his whole being until he feels his teeth show.

The older man takes a deep breath before pointing toward the door, clearing his throat as if to shake invisible jitters. “Gonna take a smoke out there.”

“You don’t want a drink?”

“Don’t drink,” Daryl utters too quickly.

Paul lets it go, because he trust the older man in his own unique way.

“You’re not gonna take off on me?”

Daryl seems to know that Paul needs the extra reassurance—that it eases his panic even if his tone says otherwise.

“Was thinkin’ bout it,” Daryl teases, paper stick already lit between parted lips. “But like I said, ain’t got no place to be.”

Then the door is shutting and Paul finds it difficult to walk back to the kitchen. When he does, Tara’s knowing expression is what he’s meet with.

“ _Don’t_.”

“Don’t what?” she feigns innocence. “I like him, Jesus. Don’t worry.”

Paul takes a seat opposite his best friend, taking the pro-offered beer with an low _thanks_.

“You were right about him being prickly, though. I can’t blame the guy, spending so much time with you.”

“Fuck you,” Paul utters drowsily, joking tone all there and understood.

Tara only smiles in response. Then her face is in police mode again, and all Paul can do is appreciate how much she worries over him. “You really trust him?”

“Yeah,” Paul whispers, surprising himself. “I think I really, really do.”

“Then he knows,” Tara utters simply.

“He does now.”

Paul doesn't think about his pack in the other room, doesn't even have an underlying worry about it. And for the first time in a while, he isn't worried about being discovered. He feels safe knowing Tara’s there. Knowing _Daryl’s_ there, he thinks too. The thought doesn't even feel out of place.

“Then he’s okay with me, too.”

Paul lets out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding in.

Tara nods slowly, up and down as she inspects his faltering poker face. She sighs deeply before taking another sip of her drink, lip devilishly turning up.

“He seems like your type. Touch deprived puppy in need of a friendly person like you.”

“It isn’t like that,” Paul swears up and down that it isn’t even as his heart begins to thud against his will. “It’s not.”

He peers down at the kerosene wax between them on the table to avoid her gaze, but they both know she's won this time.

“Whatever you say,” the overzealous woman drags out.

There's an undying twinkle in her eye as she smirks to herself, and Paul knows just how to wipe it off.

“How’s Denise?”

Tara’s face goes entirely pink as she pushes her dark tresses up in a useless attempt to disguise it. Then she’s uttering something under her breath about kicking his ass _but it wouldn’t be fair because I have police training._

“Oh, yeah. _It’s not like that_ ,” Paul teases. “I forgot.”

“I take it back,” Tara deadpans. “I didn’t miss you at all.”

There’s a comfortable silence as they drink together for the first time in a while. The kitchen is welcoming and familiar.

“I was thinking about going back to New York after this,” Paul whispers.

“Oh?” Tara says, pretending to be disinterested.

“Was thinking about asking if you wanted to go too, but I know you’ve got your police work keeping you down here.”

She chews a bottom lip as she outwardly thinks of what to say. “In daylight, everywhere feels okay, you know?” she whispers.

But he doesn’t know. And he knows she doesn’t either, even if that’s what she’s telling herself these days.

“Don’t you miss it, too?”

Tara takes a gulp of her drink, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand before peering over at him with an intense glint in her dark eyes. “We were drowning back there, Paul.”

“I know, but doesn’t part of you want to go back? To walk those streets again?”

“Part of me?” Tara ponders out loud. “Yeah, a part of me does. A part of me wants to go back all the damn time. But I have a role to play now.”

 

                                  ##

 

It’s inching toward yet another 12:00. Tara’s out like a light in the bedroom and Daryl still hasn’t come back inside. Paul walks carefully to the window, past a discarded pizza box and dirty paper towels. Daryl’s still out there, as promised. But it feels wrong for the younger man to be inside while the person who’s practically been watching out for him sits out there in the dark.

He’s smoking, yeah. But he’s also sitting in the driver’s seat with a purposeful look on the parts of his face Paul can make out. Like he’s tuned into something important. Deep down, Paul knows that the older man probably won’t be coming back inside tonight. A disappointed frown take its place over his features.

The younger man knows that going out there wouldn’t be a phenomenal idea, but he can't shake the image of what happened out by the woods when he chose to stay inside. Still, it isn't a good idea to intrude on Daryl’s personal space.

Paul forces himself to walk away from the window and plants himself down onto the sofa in the tv room. It’s still damp and sunken in from where Daryl’d been. The older man’s angel-winged vest is still there, too. Something about knowing these things makes it easier to settle his insides.

But like so many instances before this, time alone with his thoughts proves to be too much. He thinks of the group home, a place he left years ago that’s still ingrained into him. He grew up there, developed into his own person there.

He remembers it vividly. _Presently_.

The world drowns itself in a black hole while kids laugh and tears threaten to spill. It’s something like an image that plays over and over, always present, never past. It itches. And it twists and turns and pulls his lungs so tight he can’t breathe until it’s decided enough is enough.

And Tara isn’t there. She’s in some teen home now, not even two years older than him and they’re torn apart with nothing but a disconnected phone number inked onto their wrists. And it still doesn’t feel like it’s over. Because it isn’t over. The world is overpopulated with people just like those kids that left all kinds of unhealable scars. Something drastic is happening. The difference is that he chose this path. He chose to work for terrible people and do terrible things.

This whole thing doesn’t feel as secure as it did a week ago. He doesn't want to tell himself it's true, but it feels like the whole world is ten steps ahead of him at all times. That neighborhood was difficult to grow up in, but this is the whole universe.

The words on Daryl’s phone print themselves into his mind over and over. Earlier, he’d told himself he didn’t remember what they said. But he does now.   

> **12:45 AM**  
>  _Can we talk?  
>  Daryl?_
> 
> **12:48 AM**  
>  _You don't know what you're doing.  
>  Please, just let me talk to you._

Whoever it is was worried about him. Important to him.

Paul finds it impossible to shut his eyes with so much going through his thoughts. Between Dwight and the pack and Tara’s worried look and the invasive images, it’s too much.

“ _Insomnia isn’t born, Jesus_ ,” some obnoxious kid whose name he can’t remember used to tell him. “ _It’s made_.”

The idea of proper sleep is something he doesn’t get used to these days, not in dirty motels and not in Tara’s tiny home that might as well be his too. It’s a perpetual wound. And it’s just like back at the orphanage all those years ago. No one paid attention when he just stopped trying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> y'all are incredible. thanks for being interested in this.


End file.
